We built these walls around us out of brick
to keep us safe, protect us from the gale.
It’s ill outside. But inside we are sick.
The winds within the walls are small and stale.

Mud, dung, and clay, tree branches wrapped in leather
let too much outside in. We found the trick
of keeping out the bugs, and beasts, and weather:
we built these walls around us out of brick.

They worked so well, we thought to use those arts
to guard our spirits, more than bodies frail.
We built new walls of hardness ‘round our hearts
to keep us safe, protect us from the gale.

For why should strangers ask what we can’t give?
The poor are used to want – their skins are thick –
Still, they increase. It is so hard to live.
It’s ill outside. But inside we are sick.

Cut off from storm, we strain to take full breath.
The winds within the walls are small and stale.
We hear no moans, the walls have made us deaf.
Our outer walls are strong. Inside, we fail.

Smothering and safe, we wonder if we dare
knock out a brick to get a little air.
Our hearts feel small and trapped inside our skin.
When is it safe to let the outside in?