The Anniversary of Pain

My father's anniversary:
((there was a swan pond in our way to the hospital that I have to take him every other day for blood transfusion))
::

Do you remember our last days,
like a giant broken heart on wobbling legs of scare
on our ways,
to the place of the last care,
swans were laying eggs in the vesper glare?

Do you remember those white eyes dipping into
the pitch dark of our nightmare?

Do you remember they were printed everywhere:
on the ponds pouring the car's chalice of glassware,
or on the hospital wheelchair,
on the tissues and tissue boxes
always white always pair,
in the taste of the milks
on everything pure, benevolent and square
like our essence,
like how I loved you daddy,
how I live you
in every forsaken
prayer?

Do you remember after you died,
when the whole world were about to collide
when the whole world was morning with me
side by side,
cygnets were hatching?

Do you remember where my bones were riving
from our parting's tearing scratching,
when the hops were broken and the wings were matching
while these white shoots
where ripping us inside out, apart,

These falling stars
raining
like mellow fruits of diamond,
yet brandishing like chandelier
on the ceiling of my broken heart,

like the moon and sadness moaning
spangling a sketchy art
on a farewell canvas
afore you depart?

Do you see how now
the emblems
of their inerasable covenant
furrow
on the forehead of my life,
line after line under the assault of raving ploughs,
when the fervent of your fiver
blenched,
where the whiteness
in the blossom of your departure drenched,
where the whiteness in every season trenched
when our ardent in firmament clenched,
when in rain our parched lips quenched
in every spangle of snow flake
on the skin of air,
flickering and falling
on my hair?

O father days are pouring like breath
from the thunderhead of your death
these swan song silently in my ears,
in my conscience is shouting,
this winter
is spouting,
the death of you in me
is scouting,
my clutch on existence is routing,
though your voice in my seeds are spouting,

this cold
means no harm!
this cold
is
so warm! *

*) It is referring to the "chill-coma", when the victim is dying from the cold, all the sudden all the pain vanishes and replaces with drowsiness and the desire to sleep permanently.