The old chair that creaks
In its own language, it tries to speak
Sitting in the corner of the room
Buried heavily underneath the clothes... and memories
That we don't neatly fold.
The chair was once new and tough
Lustrous and brown, shiny and bright
The chair was strong... and never creaked.
But now, it screams
Asking someone to look after it.
And I see my mom
Caressing its back, loving it with her tender touch
Understanding the language it speaks
She cares for it with all her heart
And later, rests beside it
My mom and chair, resemble a lot
And I think of all the care she's deprived of