• The old house

The old house
  • Home, which was once ours, had now turned desolated, where the wind now blew the miscellany of our lives more or less like pieces of mud all wonderful memories destroyed. I found parts of my father’s heart getting in my hair and my eyes. The world is worn to shreds. All his lessons about life and his letters to us fell apart with the house, as no weatherman could envisage the storms of lament.  Now I am old and blind, but one day I would like to go back home, if only I could find the path out to it.