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.

12/01/2014

watercolour by yzagor