From one of the open windows,
A chip of wood falls,
On the sill,
Every now and then,
And the dust has another place,
To settle in,
Cobwebs on the corners of the room,
Are the room now,
Floor has cracked at places,
Door hangs in balance,
To fall when pushed,
“I did my job, as long as i could”,
Long verandah has its pictures intact,
Some on the floor,
Some still hanging on the wall,
The thick wall has some holes,
But it stands,
With considerable fortitude,
Entrance has been mobbed by,
A treacherous plant,
Which sat afar long ago,
But the door has learnt to live,
With its roots,
Spreading all through it,
The house looks old,
But it has not fallen,
It has learnt to live,
In rain, sun and animals of the night,
It lives to die on its own,
Under the weight of its long story,
Or betrayals,or pity,
To rid it of incomplete.
