The desolate Attic of memories
In a desolate old attic, with whispers of
memories of the past,
The games and pranks of my childhood are
hidden, the family memories.
Among dust, threads and cobwebs, in that
forgotten corner of that old house
Laughter and adventures are saved, in a
time of my longing.
The carts, the tin soldiers,
They are silent witnesses of those games
without a trace.
In the desolate and abandoned attic, my
imagination flew,
With spaceships and firefighters, the fun
never stopped.
The endless afternoons, jumping through the
shadows,
building castles of plasticine and paper.
The desolate attic was our secret kingdom,
where dreams were woven and flew without
respect.