The dilapidated house,
Was never visited,
And the ruins screamed,
With a distinctive eerie,
Keeping all souls,
At a distance,
From any anticipated mishap,
That might crawl again,
From the inglorious past.

There were rumors,
Of a beautiful lass,
Who strolled the village,
With absolute class,
Though unseen,
Yet she was labeled,
The epitome of grace.

There remained a tall tale,
That one fine spring day,
About a gorgeous girl,
Walking into that famous cottage,
Ever since that time,
No one saw her signs again.

I gathered some courage,
And entered the neglected bungalow,
The pale moonlight,
came through the cracked windows,
And it glittered the balustrade,
Still hanging from the stair rails,
I looked around,
But all I could find,
Was the trace of her beautiful signs,
Looming on every corner,
Making her alive,
Like some time immemorial divine.

Copyright © Shantanu Baruah