The House with a Hundred Eyes

The grand old house, a sentinel of stone,
Its ancient timbers, weathered, worn, and wise,
Has watched the seeds of generations sown,
Reflecting stories in its windowed eyes.

Each sunlit pane, a lens to passing years,
Each shadowed hall, a vault where memories sleep,
It held their laughter, calmed their childhood fears,
And felt the silent promises they'd keep.

The kitchen's warmth, a lingering, sweet scent,
Of countless meals and whispered, shared delight.
The quiet corners, where young dreams were sent,
To blossom softly in the fading light.

The sturdy doors, that opened wide to greet,
And closed with sighs when loved ones moved away,
It knew the rhythm of their hurried feet,
And every secret whispered through the day.

It heard the music, gentle, soft, and low,
The arguments that flared, then died to peace.
It watched the children, learn and grow and go,
And felt the bittersweet, profound release.

A silent witness, rooted to the land,
It bore the imprint of each passing soul,
A steadfast guardian, always close at hand,
Making the broken spirit truly whole.

Through changing seasons, steadfast and profound,
It stands, a chronicle, from dust to grace,
Where every echo, every hallowed sound,
Finds its true home within this sacred space.

- Khushi Kaul