The Story of House
These bricks tell the story of erstwhile house, through the cavities they now own
The walls stoop to let the nostalgia scoop,
The banyan tree creeped ,to make the house its story squeak.
Father burried his dreams, for his children who were his gleam,
The house was build with his hardships as the foundation,
He stood on his feet to let the building complete,
It was enexact, it was incomplete for the need of cash,
He continued his travails, to let his children and the puppy prevail.
The house became home, as all three in the backyard played,
Their experience with the mud, did make the joy sprout,
Their impressions of the play did the walls sketch,
Echoes of their shout made the parents proud,
The boy was their aspiration, the girl was the inspiration.
As the mother got busy, the mirror grew old,
He fulcrum of attention shifted to kitchen,
Father calibrated his savings to let children’s education an english engraving
As the chalks on the blackboard walked, valuable lessons form their parents children stocked,
The Gift of future rolled, to make these little moulds of clay bold.
Children got old ,cold, in the college they got enrolled,
The dog took the job early, when the children were still making merry,
The mirror got young as the attention it craved got swung,
The boy attended the dates, while the girl helped her mother clean plates,
Wrinkles spawned the banyan tree, as parents tensions got trebbled.
As time progressed, brother got a job, and sister got engaged,
The cracks on the walls, were embraced by the paints,
As the worries lessened, from the eyes of the parents, the joy trickled,
When the girl leaved, the house weaped,
With her legs, the plants she trampled, with her own hands she had once reaped.
The son got a wife, much to his parents surprise,
As she cornered his attention, parents unfigured in his calculation,
It took some years for the situation to blow, when the son made the parents, his intentions know,
The father, the mother, the dog, left the place with their tears all dry,
With time as the son turned old, as father, in this” own” house was he accosted to let the history unfold.
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O'Santorini 