Son, who will never be born

My father was a writer
Wrote a lot of poems
About love and pain
I am his son
He told me that he loved me
Forever and always
That time I was little boy
I didn't understand

Now I have no one
Accompany me
My father's ashes spread  in forest and lake
He is fish in the river
He told me it will be so
I go to this forest to be with him
My father living in leaves and trees

Now I have no one to help me grow
My father went to where I don't know
He is a green grass on the hill
The bridge made of wood
Clouds in the skies that he became
I was told of his smile like sunshine
Blue eyes like the sky
And  like cloud, white hair
I dream of being born, having dad