Photo by JB, 2018
Yellow straw tells me old story
about seasons and work, about fruits
Now it dries at the sun, useless, dead
tired gold poured down on the fields
You cut straws for me once, in my prime,
inside mature wheat stem, in the summer,
you told me about butterflies, bees
leading so my young life to its bloom
Now I am in the evening of days,
as sail broken by slaps of bad wind.
I know that you are alive and you are better
yet I wish here your strength, your strong hand
July, 4th 2018
From those papers your face
and no lost souvenirs of a time
when a sense held up everything
and you were both a shelter and aid
Where are you looking at?
Is your day near or far?
Your eyes are focusing beyond us
staring at the last threshold of your
world that you, that’s for sure, there you saw
Years have passed but the absence does not.
You come back in the nights, in my dreams
and we talk and it’s usual.
Then I wake up, I see me, I miss you
March, 21st 2017
Spring has came as it uses, no matter
father if you are dying here we leaving.
Father of our lives, Lord I’m praying
for his courage and for our own
Father, Lord, my knees blend to the truth
make me real like your breath which can’t see
build me finally free of myself
make me alive as my dad as you want
Monday, 19 March 2012