Four years and his room is untouched.

I would love it that way

For years!

Stays ***** and span
The memory of my old man.

The southern window side of the bed
Where he laid his head

The eastern window that broke his sleep
With the sun’s first peep

His snapped photos on the wall of west
That ache my chest

On the northern wall the clock
That still of his time talks

His divan forlorn
Resting cold from his last morn

In each bric-a-brac
His touch his track

In ticks and creaks
His memory speaks.