Walls of Memory

At dawn the walkers often glance,
At an old house, caught in chance.
Broken beams, a weary frame,
Yet the heart still stirs the same.

The gate, rust-bitten, stands forlorn,
Silent witness to years outworn.
It seems to sigh, in quiet plea:
“No guest has come to visit me.”

Frangipani blooms in pride,
Jasmine rows still beautify.
They whisper of a mistress fair,
Who once poured love on gardens there.

No malls had risen, no towers tall,
No branded stores, no glittering mall.
Just land, this home, and courtyard wide,
With memories blooming deep inside.

Now scooters speed with horns that cry,
Kicking up dust as they race by.
The lonely house, ignored, unseen,
Fades in the rush of what has been.

No wedding songs, no festive crowd,
No laughter here, once bright and loud.
Grass has grown, the flowers reign,
Where silence keeps its quiet claim.

The frangipani softly sings:
“I bloom regardless, come what brings.
See me or not, it matters none,
I’ll shine beneath the morning sun.”

And then the house, with gentle cheer:
“My things may vanish, disappear—
But memories hold a grander place,
Their palace lives in hearts, not space.”