Grandfather's house, knocked to the ground - to dust:
The windows wept when the bulldozer came
Timeworn and dirty and wheezing black smoke,
Just like the drab mills where grandfather moiled.
Children play in the intriguing debris
Where, once, children played on the garden path,
Where grandfather told stories of past things
And the children listened wide eyed, in awe.
The door remains standing, creaking, ajar,
As it yawns in the twilight of the gloom
And the children knock though no one answers
So, they run away for, why should they stay?
Abandoned now, no one, near here, comes by
Except myself in the patience of night
As I tap on the door, though softly now,
Grandfather answers and dolefully smiles.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem