So many colorful shards,
so many scattered books,
my Father left behind.

He connected the dots
with me, in space and time,
listening to the wind
when it was raining.

Absent and so close,
he used to say:
“Listen to what’s on the ground.
See what lifts us at night
when the birds go silent.”

He gave me more unrest,
he was the left hand
forced to write
with the right.

He believed in me
when the system
sent me away,
dismissed me.

He had hope
without medals,
standing steadfast
in the last row.

Now the body crumbles.
There is a memory
full of holes.
A counting echo—
he remembers,
he doesn’t,
it’s fine,
still hard
but his voice lives…

Time is blending
into a rusted chain
of events.
Tenderness,
resistance
to the falling apart
of departure.

He won’t come back.
He won’t recover.
The body is warm,
life doesn’t want to escape
the shrinking shell.

Sharp words cut helplessness.
Many nights still come
until the final return
to the embryonic state,
to point zero.

I am here,
into this deep night
being the witness to breath,
awake in the dark gentleness.

In the fold of night
Whispered dreams upon the stars
Gently guide my heart

Golden burnt sienna
Earth serengeti
Brave warrior chants
Echo
Fearless lion roars
Like fire upon the dust
Rises

I glanced at the veins
of daisies drifting
from the sky—
roses and tulips, too,
tangled in the clouds,
as though the heavens
were blooming in reverse.

The moon and sun
had come to earth
for rest—
to feel the grass,
to touch something green,
to turn off their lights,
and finally, just breathe.

Because even light
gets tired
of being needed.