(1)
And he stoppeth one of three.
"By thy grizzled beard and weary eye,
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?
The building gates are opened wide,
The movers they do haste;
To shift my goods to my new abode—
Why, man, dost thou lay waste?"
He holds him with his skinny hand,
"There was a time," quoth he—
"Hold off! Unhand me, gray-beard loon!"
Eftsoons his hand dropt he.
He holds him with his glittering eye—
The newcomer stood still,
And listens like a three years' child:
The Resident hath his will.
The newcomer sat on the dusty floor,
He cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
With voice so strange and clear:
"The building here is grand and tall,
Its face toward the sky;
But within its lofty, shadowed halls,
A thousand troubles lie.
Water, water, everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink.
From taps, the liquid trickles down,
As brown as autumn leaves;
It stains the sinks, it floods the floors,
And yet, no one believes.
For some, the water comes in jets,
That knock their pots away;
For others, it's a dribble thin,
That leaves them in dismay.
But hark, another tale I'll tell,
Of windows, high and wide;
Where people toss their rotten wares,
To see where they might bide.
A sandwich here, a curry there,
Sent flying to the breeze;
But lo! It finds a neighbor's pane,
And sticks with strangest ease.
The rain it drips, the wind it whips,
And through the glass it leaks;
The man below doth curse the skies,
For water on his cheeks.
Oh, the woes of window wars,
Where none are safe from spill;
For what goes out from one above,
May soon descend at will.
But still, the building stands so proud,
A marvel, to be sure;
Yet none within can rest aloud,
Their comfort so unsure.
(2)
The WhatsApp group, a cursed thing,
With thumbs that never sleep;
They rise, they fall, they bounce along,
In endless, mindless leap.
Messages of great import,
Are buried in the tide;
Beneath a sea of useless nods,
That never do abide.
"Good morning!" says a cheerful soul,
And thumbs arise in cheer;
But soon the news of water woes,
Is lost and disappears.
The pigeons too, a bane to all,
Their droppings foul and rude;
No feeding them, the rule decreed,
Lest cars be thus imbued.
And yet the feeders do persist,
Their grains they slyly throw;
And pigeons gather, undeterred,
To bring their messy woe.
But soft! The car park once again,
Becomes a battlefield;
Where cars are judged by status high,
And spots are never sealed.
The guest spots, prized and sacred ground,
Are guarded close and tight;
And woe betide the resident,
Who parks there in the night.
I once did try, with quiet plea,
To park where I might see;
But Mr. C, in his glee,
Did block my way with glee.
"Not for thee, this hallowed space,"
Quoth he with fiendish pride;
"Thy car must rest in yonder place,
And far from me abide."
But fortune smiled, in subtle guise,
As I made my final stand;
A deal was struck, with wary eyes,
And I did win my hand.
"Park here," he said, "but mind the rule,
That I shall now bestow;
Thou must ensure thy car is clean,
And never, never slow."
So now my car, with gleaming pride,
Doth rest in hallowed ground;
But I must watch, and ever hide,
Lest C come around.
(3)
The new resident stands in silent thought,
His mind a tangled maze;
He ponders on the tales he's heard,
In this strange, chaotic place.
He sees the old man’s crooked smile,
That hides a secret mirth;
And wonders at the twisted joy,
That springs from all this dearth.
The corridors echo with the cries,
Of neighbors locked in feud;
Of leaking pipes and pigeon fights,
Of rules that oft exclude.
Yet through it all, the ancient one,
Seems strangely undisturbed;
He finds a twisted satisfaction,
In chaos undeterred.
For in this house of endless strife,
Where peace is seldom found;
The old man walks, with quiet pride,
On this beleaguered ground.
He knows each crack, each faulty pipe,
Each spot where rot takes hold;
And watches with a knowing eye,
As new stories unfold.
The garbage tossed from window ledge,
The water seeping in;
The parking wars, the pigeon plague,
All cause his heart to grin.
For in the midst of all these woes,
Where others might despair;
The ancient resident alone,
Finds comfort in the air.
(4)
The newcomer, still standing there,
Now questions his intent;
Should he stay and bear the load,
Of life within this tent?
But then the old man speaks again,
In tones both soft and grave;
“Do not fear this place, my friend,
For you’ll learn to be brave.
For in the end, we all must find,
A way to cope with fate;
To live amidst the chaos here,
And not be filled with hate.
So welcome to this lofty tower,
Where madness finds its home;
Where every day’s an endless hour,
Of tales that make one moan.
But fear not, young one, you’ll survive,
And find your place in line;
Just learn to laugh, to jest, to thrive,
And you’ll be doing fine.”
The old man turns, his tale complete,
And shuffles down the hall;
The newcomer, with heavy feet,
Feels faint within the wall.
And as the elder fades from sight,
A final thought takes flight;
The ancient’s words, both sharp and bright,
Have left him in a fright.
But still, a flicker of resolve,
Lights up within his chest;
He’ll take the challenge, try to solve,
This building’s endless test.
The old man ends his dreary tale,
And turns him with a grin;
The new one shudders, feeling frail,
And knows not where to begin.
For in this place of many woes,
Where nothing seems to fit;
The ancient one finds joy, God knows,
In watching all of it.
He whispers, just in case—
The doors are in their place."
