(1)
It is an ancient resident,
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.
And as he turns to walk away,
He whispers, just in case—"At least, my friend, for all the pain,
The doors are in their place."
