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The roads
also have their wistful rest,
When the weathercocks
perch still and roost,
And the town is quite like a
candle-lit room -
The streets also dream their
dream.
The old houses muse of the old days
And
their fond trees leaning on them doze,
On their steps
chatter and clatter stops,
On their doors a strange
hand taps.
Men remember alien ardours
As the
dusk unearths old mournful odours.
In the garden
unborn child souls wail
And the dead scribble on
walls.
Though their own child cry for them in
tears,
Women weep but hear no sound upstairs.
They
believe in loves they had not lived
And in passion
past the reach of the stairs
To the world's towers or
stars.
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