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by Sunil Sharma

The house
Washed in golden light
By an autumnal sun.
The house
Held in veined hands
Ready to tumble out of
The still photograph
Frayed on edges—
Once bright.
Sepia memories
Forever imprisoned
In that snapshot
Pre-digital age
Indian town that boasted
A good tree cover that time.
Echoes from a past
Forever lost except
For the grieving heart
Searching for signs of a
Scattered family in a dusty album
Sitting in an old folks’ house.
Posted by David Evans

David Evans, Feature Editor
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