The house was messed and empty,
No one was around, it is just only me.
Walls was covered with those faded paints;
Old lamps and antiques, no one will complains.
The wooden stairs, were I moved step,
Those old books, paintings, and figurines, my ancestors once kept;
A gaze reflected from an old blurred mirror,
A treasure we once kept, from a faraway Emperor.
A scenery of an unfolded sunset,
Fined green grasses, where I once fall asleep.
A sign of endurance of an old oak tree,
Our resting place, were my ancestors draws resentment for free.
This house may look old and odd.
We're my ancestors was fought and shed their bloods,
My healing medicine, my resting place.
Never will I change this for a modern phase.
YOU ARE READING
A Kind of Big Firecrackers
PuisiA compilation of my written poems. Have a shot reading some of it. Thank you.
