Here's the poem.
On the outskirts of town
There was a messenger
Who found himself on the outskirts of town.
Outside the wall
The wall was too thick to speak through,
Too hard to crack and too high to vaults.
There was a gate,
But it was painfully narrow,
Permitting nothing to pass
But sand and scrawl
His message on the wall.
He did this continually,
Day after day, year after year.
Until the entire wall encircling the town
Was covered with his writing,
Then he returned to his starting point
And began anew.
But the towns people, living their minutes
On the other side, did not know.
Sometimes lying awake in their beds,
They actually heard
The chalk scraping the wall.
But they thought it might be their own breathing
Or perhaps a small bird. Never did they dream it was a message for them. The messenger grew old.
His hair turned white (partly from chalk dust)
And his fingers became stiff
Still he wrote on.
He had no other engagements
On the outskirts of town
In time a second messenger
Was sent to seek the first.
He found the old man
Lying beside the wall,
Too worn to write another word.
The new messenger said a prayer
And took the chalk
From between the dying man’s fingers
Then he began to scrawl
The same old message to the town:
The handwriting on the wall
Will wear this wall down!
By Richard J.
On the outskirts of town
There was a messenger
Who found himself on the outskirts of town.
Outside the wall
The wall was too thick to speak through,
Too hard to crack and too high to vaults.
There was a gate,
But it was painfully narrow,
Permitting nothing to pass
But sand and scrawl
His message on the wall.
He did this continually,
Day after day, year after year.
Until the entire wall encircling the town
Was covered with his writing,
Then he returned to his starting point
And began anew.
But the towns people, living their minutes
On the other side, did not know.
Sometimes lying awake in their beds,
They actually heard
The chalk scraping the wall.
But they thought it might be their own breathing
Or perhaps a small bird. Never did they dream it was a message for them. The messenger grew old.
His hair turned white (partly from chalk dust)
And his fingers became stiff
Still he wrote on.
He had no other engagements
On the outskirts of town
In time a second messenger
Was sent to seek the first.
He found the old man
Lying beside the wall,
Too worn to write another word.
The new messenger said a prayer
And took the chalk
From between the dying man’s fingers
Then he began to scrawl
The same old message to the town:
The handwriting on the wall
Will wear this wall down!
By Richard J.