The front door stands, a sentinel of wood,  

Guarding secrets in the quiet neighborhood,  

Paint peeling with tales of rain and sun,  

Of countless footsteps, of lives undone.  

It creaks with history, each hinge a sigh,  

Echoes of laughter, and tears that dry,  

Welcome to the weary, a passage to the home,  

Yet a barrier for those who dare to roam.  

A threshold crossed, where stories blend,  

From beginnings anew to the final end.  

The front door waits, both friend and guard,  

Main entrance of an old school in London that had differentiation between girls and boy classrooms

Luca Nicoletti

**Front Door**


The front door stands, a sentinel of wood,

Guarding secrets in the quiet neighborhood,

Paint peeling with tales of rain and sun,



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