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There is a house that speaks to me. It tells of the old man who lived and lost. It tells of the child in the yard. It tells too of the bush left bare and with no love to bloom.


I hear it speak at night by the moon, like a tale it longs to share. Just I hear. They do not care like I do. They work and walk, look and leave. It does not mean a thing to them.


Down the lane there is a tree that cries. It cries for kids to play by him. It cries for mums to talk by him. It cries too for men and grills to bond by him.


I wave to the tree as I walk by. He just needs a pal. They do not wave. Too busy they are and I do not care. I will be its pal, and the tree, house and I will be fine.