Dust.

This is the old hall where we sang our old prayers
In timid quartets, our fingers smudged with ink.
And the old wind blew through the creaking shutters
Singing along in a tune we once knew.
The rows of empty seats where we imagined our fantasies
And velvet curtains where the walls were damp
The grand old organ we didn’t dare to touch
And the ghost of the past hiding between the pipes.
Old was new and our worlds were coloured dim
With glistening fantasies of a history read and heard
The colours of antiquity – much of it imagined
Where the dust had gathered from the passing storms.
The windows have been thrown open
Since then, by some unseen hand of betrayed eternity
And the wind, in some gory daze of triumph
Barges in unheeded – where it was once barred.
And flusters the dust – some misplaced remnant
Forgotten and complacent, left behind by time.
The shutters aren’t there to creak to the song
Of the wind anymore, or our forgotten tune.
But there is the dust forever and on…
The dust of yesterday. The dust of memories
Layers of new merging into the old
Silent songs of overlapping destinies.