That big old tree with twisted branches,
Which once held you tight when you swung.
That room of yours where no one passes,
Which saw your first paintings hung.
Those arrogant little squirrels,
Whom you chased on your four.
That aura created by your giggles,
Which used to smile and ask for more.
Those swollen walls with greenish texture,
Which used to shine by your absurd scribblings.
That abandoned corner of the terrace,
Which silently shared your crudest feelings.
Miss you a lot, these innocent things.
Need you a lot, these silent things.
Come back and pay them a visit
Coz sometimes they can do
What people won’t do.