That sandstone home of aeonian repose
sheds dirty, green tears every monsoon.
Its curves turn with the street,
walls stretched to occupy a uneasy vacuum:
of life held within, of the family of
four -- who laughed, cried inside fourscore walls,
of four lives which moved beyond the street.
Closure is an accessory of the times.
The ending. With no time to re-collect:
like remembering they were home only yesterday,
like watching wrinkles demolished with distemper and lime,
or engraved doors secured for the last time,
divorced from their writhing locks on this day,
when the old beauty awaits
the bulldozer?s devastating caress.