Six cups for the six little urchins,
In the old mansion by the river.
Steaming milk in the jug
slowly drowning powdered chocolate.
A plant long forgotten ,starved,
dies a slow death on the food table.
The shabby walls shouting out the crunch,
but one grand chair unwilling for mercy.
Paintings -two- strange- overlook the scene,
One soul but two bodies possessed.
Time goes on and the milk is cold,
Chocolate settles for a chat with sugar.
No urchins did ever come ,
and none did clean the table spread.
Started as one frame grandeur,
but now mystery had taken the seat.
The six white cups untouched and raw,
milk stale and stinky- still waits.
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