Four years and his room is untouched.
I would love it that way
For years!
Stays spick and span
The memory of my old man.
The southern window side of the bed
Where he laid his head
The eastern window that broke his sleep
With the sun’s first peep
His snapped photos on the wall of west
That ache my chest
On the northern wall the clock
That still of his time talks
His divan forlorn
Resting cold from his last morn
In each bric-a-brac
His touch his track
In ticks and creaks
His memory speaks.
Great poem. A room of memory holds many treasures of those we have loved. I have many rooms of memory that I often visit in my poetry. Thank you for this wonderful poem of images. RoseAnn
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
An achingly beautiful poem. You describe each detail of the room with reverance and affection. The place where a loved one last lay their head is sacred.