The Song the Walls Sing

The walls of childhood, silent, plain, and tall,
Absorbed the symphony of growing years.
From lullabies that softly used to fall,
To whispered secrets, calming childish fears.

They drank the laughter, vibrant, clear, and loud,
The heated arguments, a sudden, sharp retort,
The late-night talks, beneath a starry shroud,
And every story, of the playful sort.

Now, when I walk through rooms that once were mine,
A subtle hum, a resonance I feel,
The very plaster, wood, and painted line,
Begin to sing, making the past so real.

A ghostly chorus, echoing around,
Of voices loved, that shaped my tender soul,
Each sound a memory, profoundly found,
Making the fragmented spirit truly whole.

The creaking floorboards join the gentle tune,
The window panes reflect a fading light,
As walls recall the magic of the moon,
And all the dreams that blossomed in the night.

They are acoustic archives, vast and deep,
Vibrating softly with a hidden past,
The silent promises they used to keep,
A symphony of moments, built to last.

This song the walls sing, tender, true, and low,
A living history, played out in the air,
A constant comfort, helping me to know,
The love and life that always lingered there.

- Khushi Kaul