.

In a room covered in dust

Where evening’s light shines its warmth,

As in a heart covered in rust

That fears tears and their cold harmth,

Sits a family of old friends

– Remnants of a past era -,

Each of them portrait of bold trends

From lonely Azrael to ambitious Mira,

In a corner of the wooden chest

The cheap yet colorful drum lies silent

And atop the highest shelf sits a nest

Full of birds of passion, lovingly violent,

It once felt as though they observed

Their eyes judging and intentions devious,

But now he knows they are forever preserved

And shall not make him again Prometheus,

His life reads in the hundred books

To which he now rarely looks,

His hopes hidden away

In his peculiar moods and their secret sway,

Behind a false piano, opposite to the flowery drawing

Behind a thin and yet unmoving threefold door

The dreams of this child, the children of his dreams, have long been thawing

And if all is well they will thaw evermore;

The trophies, the medals, the cups and dozen charms

Are scattered in the wind of stillness that echoes,

He stands there, remembering the hundred thousand harms,

The secret of his thoughts is that only he knows.

.

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“There is a house in my street, there is a room in my house…”