Flora (Yuan) Wang

Light flitting
through the bushes,

Streaming into the
screened window.

In a room not
aboveground,

Or below.

In a room at some
strange intermediate.

A room filled with
joys of childhood.

Books once loved,

Eagerly reached for
and read fanatically,

With a fervor,

Only suspense could
usher in.

The glass coffee
table where hours

Upon hours of effort.

Spent on the pursuit
of art and joy.

Which was once
synonymous,

Now a distant dream.

Black cases like
coffins

Hold the gifts of
melody,

Intricate wooden
boxes,

With tuned strings

Once filled the room
with music and beauty.

In the air hangs

Nostalgia.

The melancholy of

What once was

And could never be
again.

Innocence of
childhood.

Purity of mind

The distant days of
calm,

Dearly missed.

Memories of youth,

Dearly treasured.