The door at the top of the staircase

The door at the top of the staircase was closed again. The steps moved away after the last turn from key. In the part, the night fell. Silence settled. Sometimes, under the door a bit of clearness slips by. There is nobody any more to awake. In an armchair a headstock, the gotten mixed up hair rests. There is no more child to shout or have fun. More smoke in the chimney, more meal to be consumed. On the wrists of door sleep of the spiders as if nothing had never been. A given up house, forgotten, without destiny. One day, perhaps, of the steps the stairs will go up. They will open the door, the eyes opened wide to see beyond the darkness. Will they be able to imagine our wild dances, our rested sleeps, our agitated years, our completed lives? They will take the headstock like a trophy of our old years, from will go away without regret, the step in a hurry. They will sell our released walls of a ball. It we will leave time, all these years of darkness the closed door. It is there to protect us. We do not need more to see us to love us.