Once in this place, I heard the memory of a child
Who giggled as she raced down the hall,
and the sound of youthful glee fell from the bricks, to echo on the linoleum floor.

Here, the walls leak laughter- and memories.

There was the time in this place, when I felt the remnant of many Sundays
Long forgotten Sundays with open arms,
Sundays with tea and cookies and music.

Here, the walls leak love- and memories.

Just last week in this place, I saw the faded colors of old glory,
on a windsock that hangs from a sad old tree
Which beckons one to sit in her branches
and sing songs of happiness and wild clovers.

Here, the walls leak loneliness- and memories.  

Often in this place, the lingering smell of countless roast chicken dinners
mixes with the musty odor of insulation,
ripping through old ruined paint.  

Here, the walls leak rainwater- and memories.