The Echo in the Empty Room

The empty room, a canvas of the past,
Is not truly silent, nor truly bare.
A subtle hum, a resonance that's cast,
From unseen presences, lingering in the air.

The walls remember laughter, light and free,
The whispered secrets, shared in fading light,
The heated arguments, for all to see,
And quiet moments, through the darkest night.

Each sunbeam falls where someone used to sit,
Each shadow plays where figures used to move,
A lingering energy, a gentle wit,
A silent testament to lives of love.

The floorboards creak, recalling hurried tread,
The window pane, the gaze that looked outside,
The space still holds the words that once were said,
And tears that silently, profoundly cried.

It breathes the essence of a life once lived,
A spectral dance of joy and soft regret,
A silent chronicle, profoundly archived,
A presence felt, though faces we forget.

The silence deepens, yet it's never void,
But rich with echoes, vibrant, strong, and clear,
A tapestry of moments, unalloyed,
That whisper softly, for the heart to hear.

This empty room, a memory bank so vast,
Holds invisible imprints, strong and true,
A living history, built to truly last,
Forever shaped by all that passed through.

- Khushi Kaul