they walked hand-in-hand
towards the old wrecked place...
perhaps as old as themselves...even older...
the same wrinkles on the walls as on their face
the bricks beginning to fall...
and the patches of paint fading away
the furniture is broken and saw dust is feeding ants
the taps are rusted although water only dribbles now
the library is ancient and empty shelves
the china-patterns are long gone
and tea-cups have amputated ears
the tiles on the floor are chipped at places
the old furnace contains decayed logs
and the grandfather's clock is past dead
the half-torn posters taunt and mock
the small, tiny attic remains unchanged
it was always unkept, ugly and uncared...
they now stand before it...
and hear a distant hum...bulldozer
"i am sorry about your house" says their grandson
they nothing but keep looking...
she takes his hand...
"the house may be gone....but not the hand that made it...."
