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March 10, 2014

 

 

It has previous life.

It’s memories linger.

We are merely custodians

with a different finger.

 

We modernise.

We update its look

with our own stamp,

but it can’t be mistook.

 

It still has heart

and ghosts of frost,

who come to visit;

their souls still lost.

 

They aggravate.

They come at will

around seven o clock;

they can’t keep still.

 

They let us know

we’re in their place,

moving as they did

in this hallowed space.

 

But on command,

silent they be.

I calm them down,

they don’t worry me.

 

No-one believes

that we have spirits.

Some think us mad

when we speak of visits.

 

But it’s their history

we must respect,

though all that it is,

is just circumspect.

 

 

 

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