The old house on the hill
Would receive a guest.
The wind entered
Through the cracks
And quietly strolled
The corridors.
It [the wind] whistled
As it roamed each room.
The house squeaked
And cracked
From its breezy presence—
As doors opened
And slammed shut
On their own accord.
The owners were away,
As their breezy guest
Lingered a few days
And then finally left.
©
Only a poet would perceive things in this way. Thanks for sharing your very poetic thoughts.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A good, scary write, but true. This is what the winds do to old houses. I have actually lived in a house where the winds blew through cracks in the wall. Hahahaha. It's kind of funny now.