If could raise you
like Lazarus
from the grave,
I would my son.

If I could hold you
once again
in warm embrace,
and feel your beating heart,

the pulse of life
in veins and nerves,
I would hold you close
and hear

your whispered words
whatever
they may be,  
my son, our Ole.

But I cannot,
all that I can do,
is keep alive
your memory

in mind of deeds done
or words spoken
or wit and humour expressed,
or be brought memories

by photograph
or music's tune
or place, until still
such time,

beyond the dull
world's philosophy,
we meet face to face,
my son, our Ole.