Baba is dying
and the universe is crumbling.
The roots, the hidden roots
now are all peeled and exposed.
These branches are all their imitation.
Hey leaves, hey gardens, hey birds, hey songs
do not mourn
because my dad is everlasting.
At least he would never die within me,
and this is "survival" in the eyes of aeons.
So I have no choice
but to dry this flower,
to save it inside the book of my days,
to enshrine its smell forever,
to enshrine his wisdom
his unbending intent of being my father,
to teach me the world
through his old double vision glasses.
Hey dad please do not leave me
this world is way too lonely
and one-eyed
without your watch.
