Ours is a home filled with unhappy people.
They say the grass is greener on the other side,
I protest, all wooden floors are alike
They creak and groan under heavy boots.
I look up from my book and stare outside my petit window
The vermillion horizon stretches far beyond my reach
I piece together the muffled abuses from my mother
They bathe in the luminous silence of the house
A solitary man comes stealthily, shoulders drooped
Dusk follows him home, invisible yet unmistakable
The last few rays of the dying sun melt into the old carpet
Artificial light engulfs the last inch of darkness alive.
I cannot distinguish the sound of rain over the arguments
Conversations pile on, and silence creeps up from the moist earth
The doors are bolted, windows locked, curtains drawn
Where will the looming shadow hide now?
The tiny drop of tear glued in the corner of her left eye
Resembles the tiny diamond on her nose pin, shiny and cold
I look at her incoherent face under the dim light,
The solitary man looks like a lump of clay straight out of a mould
Maybe it’s all just a blurry fragment
Maybe it’s something I jotted up for a silly play
Or perhaps it’s just what Tolstoy professed,
“All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”
They say the grass is greener on the other side,
I protest, all wooden floors are alike
They creak and groan under heavy boots.
The vermillion horizon stretches far beyond my reach
I piece together the muffled abuses from my mother
They bathe in the luminous silence of the house
Dusk follows him home, invisible yet unmistakable
The last few rays of the dying sun melt into the old carpet
Artificial light engulfs the last inch of darkness alive.
Conversations pile on, and silence creeps up from the moist earth
The doors are bolted, windows locked, curtains drawn
Where will the looming shadow hide now?
Resembles the tiny diamond on her nose pin, shiny and cold
I look at her incoherent face under the dim light,
The solitary man looks like a lump of clay straight out of a mould
Maybe it’s something I jotted up for a silly play
Or perhaps it’s just what Tolstoy professed,
“All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”
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