The Silent Hope

The glitters of the soft sun

On a winter noon,

A house with all lights on,

and rooms furnished with oblivion.

An open gate in hope

yet no one to return.

Walls went silent;

floors remembered only their footsteps.

The bell retained their beloved ballad,

yet it remained unheard.

A cold gust of heaviness

settled inside the chambers.

A dusted table with untamed pages,

Stories within are known, yet never traced.

Warmth hidden beneath these silent corners,

like folded old clothes from earlier days.

The vinyl turned

to a euphoric mind,

and echo traced

the rhythm of the wound.

The walls keep the varnish,

refusing ever to vanish;

the gate remains together,

but never locked to the other.

The house holds its soul,

recalling the warmth,

as it stands relinquished,

yet never without meaning or love.