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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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