Every evening that house sings in suffocation.
They welcome the night with worships.
Their memory is a big city to relocate hundreds of scales and intricate rhythm combinations.
They have a tempo meter.
The wind heavy with that chanting reaches the garden,
Hits his tumbler filled with water for the plants,
Compels him to pick up some lines,
Some difficult words, and some more notes.
For some years, his learning reaches the peak.
He thinks of revealing their skills and get applause,
But the day before, he gets a violent dream.
His voice becomes stone-hard when he wanted to talk with his wife.
He couldn’t move any scale, he loses the beat meter in the backyard of his home.
The terrific part of his dream is,
All the difficult words he learnt,
Dissolve in his chicken soup.
He could never know that the dreams
Are planted successfully by the house,
Who has the key of it,
And can shut his voice forever
By constructing shackles of endless myths,
Fears and differences,
Echo in the lyrics “You, the unclean”,
Script the complexity of simplest words.