Dust

This is the old hall where we sang our old prayers,
In timid quartets, our fingers smudged with ink,
And the old wind blew through the creaking shutters
Singing along in a tune we once knew.
The rows of empty benches where we imagined our fantasies
And the velvet curtaind where the walls were damp;
The grand old organ we did not dare to touch
And the ghost of the past hiding between the pipes.
Old was new and our worlds were coloured dim
With glistening imof history read and heard
The colours of antiquity- much of it imagined,
Where the dust had gathered from the passing storms
The windows have been thrown open,
Since then, by some unseen hand of betrayed eternity,
And the wind in some gory daze of triumph,
Barges in unheeded- where it was once barred
And flusters the dust- some misplaced remnant,
Forgotten and complacent, left behind by time.
The shutters are not there,
To creak to the song of the wind anymore
Or our forgotten tune,
But there is the dust forever and on;
The dust of yesterday,
The dust of memories,
Layers of new merging into the old,
The silent song of overlapping destinies