I was sitting on a chair
Directly blowing to me is air
Brown is the color of my hair
But that has nothing to do with this tale

With music playing, I write a poem
I am silently thinking alone
I remembered it was my dream to have a room
Which I can call my own

Less the music, the silence was deafening
But I can take it, because I’m waiting
While I sing, I know they’re on their way coming
Back to our room, my beloved siblings