My son,
You left the flickering candle in the fast blowing loneliness, without a sense that the wingless bird needs cuddling and cradle. Being in the eighties is not my sin nor yours. I am not passing the buck. It's my tail that my body carries where I go, and your turn is in the offing. I considered you to be my handkerchief, but you flew with the gust of selfishness. Had I been not able to groom you well, develop your mind and make you a loyal son? My remembrance hangs in my room: you are crying over bruises in your left leg, and I am beside you smearing ointment in the shades of lanterns. It will not come off even though the walls of my memory are now muddy bricks in the heavy downpour. If your father crawls and then kicks the bucket, in the hope you will not mind disturbing your life, I plead you to bury me close to your mother.
Wishes for your wellbeing and prosperity!