The top floor echoes with
The peels of laughter,
The rhythm of dancing feet,
The full-throated song of love,
And a loud reading voice.
The Ground floor under twilight’s spell,
Shelters the decrepit bodies,
Hostages to ruthless ache,
And subservient to the swelling feet,
Loath to stir a step ahead.
The feeble eyes watch the food,
Turning cold on the mahogany table,
Ears are but alert to receive the sounds,
Cascading down the memory’s stream,
From the top floor that once throbbed
With the children’s footfalls,
But guarded now by
The solitude’s sentry.
————Dr. Fathema Begum