Haus 29 is a magic number;
its once whispered dry silence,  
then collapsed like black tulips.
Her wooden frame smiles under morsel Sun,
night protrudes giving out
Coagulated rhythm.
The denizens drone in droves,
even forests cannot contain them,
bystanders flock in,
looking for  unexplained carolled groves
conversations staked on fevered implausibilities
the villagers respond in begrudging ignorance