Wind whips through broken windowpanes
Whispering long forgotten names,
Of those who once did live and die
And in this hollow house did sometimes
Laugh and cry.
No longer hear a baby’s skrike
Or Mother’s murmurous lullaby,
Nor father’s step upon the stair
Just dust and cobwebs, broken tiles
And creaking aged wooden bones
Within the hollow house
That was once called a home.
