Ti's the last time he brushed his shoes against the welcome rug,
I still see the silent turn of the doorknob.
The last sight of my old man's silhouette.
Now I live in a house as abstract as a home,
Longing for the day I leave her wings and build my own.
for there comes a day
where one decides
to cement the lament,
straighten the bent nails,
to finally build a concrete home.