The Room Poem by jan oskar hansen

The Room


The room on the attic had a bed, a commode,
bare floorboards on which dust danced as on
command, light came from a loft window.

The murmur I had stopped, the room waited
for my next move, I looked around nothing
here to bother about and closed the door.

My uncle lived here, he only left his room and
came down for his meals, when he didn’t
vanish for weeks “The Drink, mother said.

One day he didn’t return, after a year mother
went to the police and reported him missing,
after that no one mentioned him again.

I only remembered him now that I was selling
the house and looked around for something
of worth to take with me.

I opened the door again, and dust danced, on
the commode a small book, poetry written by
himself, odd no one had told me that.

A man, had written of the wonders he had seen,
landscape and seascape coloured by his mind,
the forgotten had sprung back to life.

I sat on his bed and read, till daylight faded and
it was night, looked out of the window and saw
what he had seen, the beauty and his loneliness.

The room was silent now it didn’t need to sing,
or whisper its sorrow. I had heard his song and
will carry his voice into the future.