35. THE DESERTED MANSION
Steaming coffee in the tall mugs was growing cold,
long table cloth was developing blotches of brown mud stain,
the ground floor was engulfed in heaps of disdainful dust,
sparkling glass tops displayed infinite scratch marks,
a basket of fresh fruit now lay squashed in neglect,
utensils of stainless steel had transformed into pale bronze,
rich portraits portraying war scenes hung listlessly from the wall,
heaps of literary books lay buried under a mountain of sand,
pitchers full of mineral water now bred a cluster of fungus,
roof light bulbs had formed a fountain of cracks,
ivory doors of cupboards were smudged with bird manure,
wooden legs of furniture had crawling termite,
the mirror on the staircase gave ghostly reflections,
wild stalks of grass projected from the infertile soil.
he had bid farewell to the earth decades ago,
lived life like a thorough eccentric when alive,
his mansion now lay deserted,
tucked within the picturesque plains of the tropical forests,
the desolate palace was worth a handsome fortune,
if only someone ventured through dense territories of the jungle,
unveiling the monastery standing solitary in its mystical charm,
in a camouflage of parasitic creepers trying to suck blood from the wall of century
old brick.