Hunched low to the ground,
these humble architectures,
silent witnesses to the soft theater of living,
stand unassuming, yet resolute.
They bear the issues of crayons,
half-erased smudges of chalk,
rings of condensation left by teacups,
artifacts of fleeting rituals.
How many hands have rested here,
hesitant or bold,
pressing life into their grain?
The chairs, spindled spines curved like question marks,
hold the weight of generations,
a child’s careless swing of legs,
an elder's deliberate rest.
They carry the symphony of creaks,
as though their joints conspire to remember
the rhythm of every departure.
And the tables, steady witnesses,
know the sacred in the mundane:
a folded napkin, a stack of letters,
a forgotten book left open,
its words breathing into the room’s quiet.
Together they anchor us,
draw us into the orbit of their stillness,
reminding us that in their simplicity,
they hold the complexity of a thousand lives
pressed into the wood.
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