In the attic
I keep my old portrait.
I had a face which was,
Least to say,
Pleasing to the eye.
It has been in my attic
For quite some time now,
Underneath a cloth
So dust doesn’t kiss
The glass.
I’ve been up there,
In the attic,
Many a times during these years;
Moving stuff in
And out, and all around.
My portrait’s there,
Under that cloth
And, even though I adore it,
Never can I remove the cloth
That seals my youth
And invokes sacred permanence;
If only in memory.
I am still young;
I am living still.