The Window to the Soul

In a house with walls grown weary and wide,
Where dust has settled like the years that slide,
There sits a window, framed in time's embrace,
A portal to the past, a sacred space.

Through it, the light of yesterday peeks,
Each ray a whisper, each shadow speaks—
Of lives long gone, of hearts once bold,
Now etched in stories that were never told.

The glass is cracked, yet clear as day,
As memories stir, like winds that sway.
And through this lens, the world unfolds,
A tapestry of dreams and heartaches bold.

I see a young girl with eyes of hope,
Peering through the window, dreaming of rope
To climb to stars she’s sure exist,
In a sky so vast, a love she’s kissed.
Her dreams are endless, though reality's cruel,
For life, it seems, is a game with its own rule.

Then through the pane, a figure strides,
A man with strength but sorrow hides,
His shoulders heavy, his heart alight,
A lover lost in the deep of night.
The world he built with tender hands,
Now drifts like sand through time’s cold lands.

Next, a woman, lost in grace,
Her fingers trace the window’s space.
Her eyes are wet, her mind a maze,
Lost in the echoes of brighter days.
She’d waited for a love that flew,
But time had taught her that it never grew.

And there, a child with wild hair,
Presses his face with innocent care,
In wonderment, he spies the view,
Of worlds so vast, of skies so blue.
He wonders, does the future gleam
With promises too grand to dream?

Each life, a story, each heart, a song,
The window catches them all along.
In a thousand different scenes, they dance,
Fate spinning their lives in one fleeting glance.

I watch and wonder, can the house feel?
Does it tremble, does it heal?
Does it remember the joy and pain,
Of those who lived, and left, and came?

Through that window, the past does swell,
A silent witness, a truth to tell.
The souls who lived, the souls who died,
Their hopes and regrets are locked inside.

The window, a mirror to a heart long still,
Reflects the dreams, the love, the thrill.
But in its silence, the window knows,
That life moves forward, though memory grows.

For as long as time and seasons unfold,
That window will whisper, soft and bold—
A portal to souls, to love, to loss,
A glimpse into lives that paid their cost.

And here I stand, by the old house’s side,
Where time has no choice but to gently slide,
For through the window, the past remains,
A tale of joy, a tale of pains.

I close my eyes and breathe it in—
The stories of where they've all been.
And in that window, I see it clear:
The soul of the house, both far and near.

- Khushi Kaul