Old Mansion Poem by Cyclopseven R

Rustic charm of the old mansion
speaks of human drama that unfold
the manifold relationship between man
with bitter memories and sweetest treasure;
the wooden walls of the mansion above the hill
cast its natural oneness with the surroundings
in mysteries that walk about its floor
the mansion in tears and laughter
speaks of the former occupants in constant silent;
the feet that once ramble across the parquet
no more here to run astride yonder,
the hands that once caress the walls, too,
have been dead since long ago;
the souls may have gone into hiding
yet the eternal oneness they left behind
very much missed by the old mansion
that it cries in despair and rot with pain;
a mere mansion it is not
but a castle of human ambition and hopes,
the splendor of yore it still holds
but the hearts are no more there to make its stay in grip;
made of wood though, human spirit renders the charm
that wood be made living by absorbing the vibration
of the young and old that once loved and hated each other
until the moment arrived, where to part is the law eternal;
root from the trees around hound their ways to haunt
poor mansion in dry tears cry hard to the deafness of human heart
to save her from the tormenting profundity in gradual dissolution
and make her again a mansion of honour for human shelter
so in pride it may once again rise sturdy on the hill
beckoning with lights bright another generation
to study her patience and love for the inhabitants.


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