In a room, silent, left alone, Where time itself has subtly bent, Forty years have come and gone, Walls whisper, "Nothing's understood."

Dust dances in the pale light, Memory, gently breaking quiet, An echo of a lost footfall, In corners where the stillness sprawls.

Cobwebs, like old songs, Weave patterns, delicate and long, A window view, blurred and dim, Looks out where once a garden brimmed.

Here, time's teeth do gnaw away, Where yesterday resigns dismay, In every crack, in every seam, Silence guards its timeless scheme.