The Smell of New Paint

An old house is painted new, it shines like the sun,
Dust’s peeled off, cobwebs find refuge in the store,
It’s daughter’s wedding is approaching near,
It’s tenants must soon be abandoned.

The family kin lavishly fill the rooms,
Beds join, tables relocate, cloth walls are formed,
Children meet new faces, play bride and groom,
Young men sweat, girls ornament, the house’s swarmed.

The groom arrives, guides away a pregnant cloud,
All fall silent on the sad departure flute, rain in tune,
Repairmen stop and stare, in duty and tears is strewn,
In darkest rooms money change hands, from lost to proud.

Days wait for months, then months for years,
A Diwali speeds fast, another National Flag marches past,
Dust reappear, homeless spiders find work honored.
The paint keeps from falling, glued to a father’s fast.

From distant lands, news fly on many slippery wings,
Some fetch pundits lips, some shadow old wrinkles,
Some, like gravity, pull lawyers; in corners, the paint swings,
Where once had echoed a thousand tinkles.

Lastly, flooded disheveled minds pull the fate,
As hundred kins flock to the smell of a new paint.

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