long, long ago in our old street

back from the busy road,

an old deserted stone house stood

breaking beneath its load.

such ruin that remained of peaks

stood out against the skies.

and the memory of old things

looked from behind its eyes.

in summer time this dead old house

set in its flowery space.

one likened to a stranger

in a much too friendly place.

in winter time its creaking frame

with all its falling beams,

was like a sea rocked sailor

grown weary of his dreams.

it leaned a little westward.

and now i think it knew,

and was waiting other voices

it long had listened to.{3}

once i was part of this old ruin

when i myself were young.

out of pity i must leave you

and half the song unsung.