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Many years ago I came to this house

for the first time.

I looked at empty kitchen shelves –

ran my fingers over the counter –

sat on a sunlit verandah floor and

watched a line of ants entering a sunlit wall.

I had mixed feelings about the house.

 

It was blank, hesitant –

I was young.

 

Many years from now, the house will turn silent.

Its walls will remember the sounds

of the years –

of laughter, of arguments and conciliations –

of baby-talk and a voice breaking –

of a ticking clock and barking dogs –

of visitors lingering over dinner –

of a family passing through world’s stage –

in changing rhythms, costumes and faces.

The memories will eventually turn to dust,

the sounds will fade into moody whispers

and the house will shroud itself

in the shadow of after-life –

 

hesitant.

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