A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

The desolate Attic of memories

In a desolate old attic, with whispers of
memories of the past,
The games and pranks of my childhood are
hidden, the family memories.
Among dust, threads and cobwebs, in that
forgotten corner of that old house
Laughter and adventures are saved, in a
time of my longing.

        The carts, the tin soldiers,
  They are silent witnesses of those games 
               without a trace.
     In the desolate and abandoned attic, my 
                    imagination flew,
       With spaceships and firefighters, the fun 
                never stopped.

The endless afternoons, jumping through the 
                      shadows,
     building castles of plasticine and paper.
   The desolate attic was our secret kingdom,
   where dreams were woven and flew without 
                              respect.