Sold, deserted, our ancestors gone,
the well-known rooms will house a different ghost.
Now trodden paths diverge; their ancient curve
moves on a little, daily, with the moon's
slow rhythms - old defiance dwindled, gone
upon the dark of night, the stars too weak
to light its passage. Where our feet once walked
our soft steps' sound will go unrecognized,
no forebears' welcome be their part. The food
we smell will be cooked measured; there will be
no extra portion when the tramp alights
upon the doorstep. Hands won't pat the dust
from off our backs. Our greetings will be met
with cold incomprehension - who are you
to dare disturb our quiet, ships adrift
that hail us in the night - and warmth exchanged
by mere politeness. No, those days are done;
borne by the wilting winds the desert sands
have taken over, singing in our ears
a wordless song to mourn our passing years.

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bydemure101© 2 comments/ 1419 views/ 0 favorites

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