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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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