Childhood bedroom
I know of a place where time doesn’t pass.
It rather stays to sleep in that tiny soft bed,
as if frozen forever, it so likes to stay there,
listening to my old mini stereo miraculously
still playing my CDs with hundred scratches
and reading my books with all yellow pages,
which patiently wait for a pair of curious eyes,
because those of the turtle, dog, and cat beside
it, are made of dusted old thread or dull plastic.
After all this time, this place is still fantastic.
So, I get into my childhood room, lock the door,
blast the stereo loud with the G-men and The Law
and asleep with smelly sheets in my hands I fall,
dreams guarded by the only pets I was allowed.
And early wake up with the sun and the smell of
the roses outside the window dad takes care of.
I know this place like the back of my busy hand.
If only I could stay forever in this tiny pink room,
where the only person I need to call for is mom.
