Strike it, and your dead will come,
from empty rooms

in houses inhabited by strangers,
who’ll notice the sudden scent of Sundays
and hear the children running on the stairs,

laughing – always laughing
or crying – sometimes crying.

Its echo sounds from cold hearths
and dark paintings, in the halls

and landings of old hotels,
where they were taught to walk,
not run, when the gong calls,

laughing – always laughing
or crying – sometimes crying.