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THE SHED
My Home visit (Oman) last August
The railings were old and rusty, The door paint was faded and chipped, The poor old house had seen better days, The roof, made of slate, had now dipped.
The windows showed broken hinges, the path to the door, overgrown; This was the place where I was born, The only real home I had known.
The 'rambler' that clung to the front porch, Was a rose in the deepest red, Now looking forlorn and so straggly, I thought that maybe it was dead. But tiny