The sun prolonged the overture,

two red carnations facing his face,

his body lying on white satin.
Waxy and cold,

My face tilts toward the corpse,
no longer here, yet definitely present.

What is this feeling?

And is there a being,

or is this the swan song for his soul?

If there ever was a soul,

If there ever was an everlasting spirit,

that drives this car,
then crashes into stone,

stays alive,
but not its vehicle—

by far, it’s him alone

who continues the journey

by prudent legwork.
And as he lies there straight,

i see his pale face,

knowing that this is the farewell,

yet he’s not there to listen to goodbye—

Or is he?

Accept the two carnations, Dad,

and rest on that white satin.