Time stands still,

in the old house

Peeling paint on ancient walls,

buzzing flies in empty halls,

a giant tapestry waiting since antiquity.

But for whom?

For whom will the wildflowers bloom, the songbirds sing,

and the trees dance?

When will the shelves be full again,

the chimney blackened with soot,

the chickens clucking in a gentle symphony?

That old house over the hill,

where time stopped and history began.