It's Black with White Stripes, I Think

One day, he wrote three lines:"e;Your warm smile lays in front of meThe perfect memories of a perfect lifeI haven't yet begun"e;He wrote them with care, somewhere up, to leave room for more and took a picture. Then, after a couple of days, he went back to see if the lines were still there. Much to his surprise, the three lines of poetry became five. Some person actually read them and decided he or she had to contribute. Martin was stunned. Didn't think there was poetry near him. So, he wrote another line himself. So, the poem got six lines. Then, after a week, he came back, and the poem was already 20 lines long. And, he could tell there were different authors, because the writing was not the same. As he could tell, there were some six or seven people who anonymously wrote poetry lines on an ugly urban wall. Amazing. He made his contribution again, and left. After another terrible week, terrible because he has really trying not to go near that area, so that more lines would accumulate, he went again. And this time, there were three poems. Three poems the city has created. The city was actually writing poems on its own book wall.