My Portrait

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.