Standing bare, naked, Must have brought a sense of shame. Its days of glory were long gone. The layer of plaster that once was, Hung loosely, chipped in patches; Having lost the battle With nature’s elements since long. The bare skeleton of the house, Stood at the street corner. Dark, desolate, lonely, Devoid of life. No one cared. No one was left to care! Except, perhaps, the banyan tree! The tree had enveloped the house, Its roots moving all over, Creeping over the ledges, Slithering down the walls, Wedged firm, Into the cracks and crevices in the wall, Travelling inside through the broken window frames, And hanging loose over the plaster peeled walls, Like decorations of brown streamers! The banyan tree had once sprouted, In a corner of the terrace. The young sapling, Had drawn nourishment and dug in its roots. The house, then, was full of life. Today, everyone had gone away. The house stood forlorn, desolate, Counting its last days Before biting dust, The banyan tree had Like a guardian mother, wrapped its roots around the house, protectively, Holding it steady, Like an inseparable friend; A lifeline perhaps For the rickety, old house.
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