The Empty House
I wouldn’t know
And
it really doesn’t matter
For
here stands a house without a door
Hollows
in the walls instead of windows
Smudge
marks instead of paintings
Uneven
floor where the rug ought to be
A
leaking ceiling and dampness.
The
stairs that lead up to it
Are
broken
The
awning on the portico is
A
shaky crown about to be dislodged
Lest
there be a coup
In
the form a quiet wind
The
veranda littered
With
what the sparrows might have feasted on
The
day before
This
house has no tomorrow
Just
an overhanging now
In
the shadows of yesterday.
Yesterday
once more
When
daffodils bloomed
And
gladiolas swayed
The
garden was lush with green
Sparrows
in the bird bath played
The
drive way was lined with rhododendrons
And
marble reflecting your footsteps
Laced
the veranda.
Within
shone a blazing fireplace
Carpets
swam the breadth of the floor
Oils
and water colours draped the walls
A
chandelier looked down from the ceiling
There
was a smell of cooking
And
the chatter of little feet
There
were voices which sang hallelujah
And
one day there was silence
Like
refugees they had fled
Victims
of local superstition
It
mattered not their blood was red
Or
whether it was the same air we breathed
Their
colour held precedence over their heart
For
beauty is not skin deep
They
took with them the laughter
And
warmth of the house
They
left behind only memories
And
a little brown mouse
Who
scurried till he fell dead with hunger
For
the house had turned into a coffin
Of
the living dead.
The
others came and plundered
Plucked
young buds from the garden
They
burnt the green
And
exorcised the house
Purifying
it with their misdeeds
Or
so they thought
They
did take all with them they could carry
And
burnt the rest away.
Yet
the house still stands
A
mute memory of happier climes
And
bears witness too
To
hypocritical times
It
has not the pitter patter of little feet
Or
the laughter of humanity
But
what it does hold is the belief
That
someone like you
Might
one day turn it
Into an architectural feat.
~Vikram C~
