Scattered are the things,
Of its past inhabitants,
Clubbed with webs and powdered,
With the passing winds and sands.
Mysterious are its gait,
Mysterious its twilight noise,
Walking steps of an old lady,
Is the sound that passed by.
Leaving with the murmuring voice,
Of the winds says,
Come visit me,
I still exist in the unknown world of beings!
Winnie Angel
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-old-house/
