There is a house on darkened streets,
Whose wounded walls resound with secrets deep
It throbs yet echoes none; silence in
Its veins unwinds undone
In its aches old sorrow coughs, like
Weeds its thorns descend the dusk
Crooked roses choking frames of wooden doors
Broken whispers twist on shattered floors
But beneath the planks a forest grows
Its leaves alight with gentle glow
Soil perfumed with ancient air
Twirls thick with kindness planted bare
With glimmer green its promise blooms
Young sprouts murmur loud typhoons
Tender-winded voice like distant tales of lore
Breathes soft to heal the swollen soul
