T’is in this small chamber of yours
that generation upon generation children were born
and now that old age has come
this small chamber of yours will bear no more
children and no more sorrows.
Blankets and blankets over that lonely bed of yours,
rugs under rugs and more rugs, some torn.
Your childhood fantasies hide somewhere in this home.
Tonight you sit and ponder over the chores of your many tomorrows.
T’is with caution that you cross these doors.
Ever since you began to mourn
Your mother, your father, your sister and your home
T’was then that these doors began to feel too narrow.
watercolour by yzagor