Secluded behind a wall of ivy it keeps its silence,
that mystical silence hovering in mausoleums,
haunting the naked mourning rooms,
breathing the dampness of winters past
that mystical silence hovering in mausoleums,
haunting the naked mourning rooms,
breathing the dampness of winters past
Long silenced happy childhood voices at Christmastimes,
their murmuring still heard in the silence of moonlight,
as a breeze sways branches of ancient trees
to tattoo glow worms with their shadows
their murmuring still heard in the silence of moonlight,
as a breeze sways branches of ancient trees
to tattoo glow worms with their shadows
Spring rain and the heat of frivolous summers
have left their traces on peeling paint,
unnoticed by the prowling cats on balmy evenings
drenched with the scent of jasmine
have left their traces on peeling paint,
unnoticed by the prowling cats on balmy evenings
drenched with the scent of jasmine
Autumn fog and winter frosts have left their scars,
foreboding messages of war and hatred enclosed its windows
with freezing lies to imprison the sighs and whispers
of lovers oblivious to a decadent world
foreboding messages of war and hatred enclosed its windows
with freezing lies to imprison the sighs and whispers
of lovers oblivious to a decadent world
With a certain dignity the house awaits its condemnation,
its tarnished pride guards with reverence
memories of days of rejoicing and those of misfortune;
secrets of a century buried beneath the dust of silence
its tarnished pride guards with reverence
memories of days of rejoicing and those of misfortune;
secrets of a century buried beneath the dust of silence
David Thorpe © Copyright 2016
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