*THE OLD HOUSE*
One after the other its parts fall,
Cotton and cushion worn- out already,
Doors and windows squeaking,
Even the roof disrepaired,
A tatterdemallion they see it.
Broken and faulty is it now,
Lustred and tough it was decades ago,
Happy we were when it was built,
Now they are too ashamed to call it a home.
In it priceless memories were made,
Every bit drenched with essence,
Broken they describe it,
But deep within us it’s as new as it has always been.
*© Daniel Oyibo, 2017*
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