Twenty-three bombs, yet Jericho’s town kept breathing. Nuts.

The wall stood until the rain found the mortar. Jericho’s town took twenty-three bombs and still kept breathing. I have watched fewer blows open a gate, so I distrust any fortress called secure.

You should count what survives after the smoke clears, not what the attackers spent. A cracked street and a working cookfire can matter more than a proud tower. Mud, smoke. Again.

My own keeps taught me that walls only buy time. The mistake comes when captains spend that time admiring stone, instead of leaving one gate, two watches, and a retreat that frightened men can find.