Poetry

Dad, memories do fade
when I look at your photograph
and the time that is now far long ago,
I can now hardly go back to.

The small bits of memory
do not always want to unfold,
as if you are just segments in my thoughts.

Sometimes your strong voice
do again become clear in me
but the deep emptiness remains,
as if nothing can again fill it.

Still in a way
you keep talking to me,
as if you are still present,
are still right here with me,

as if in a moment
you will come through the door
but Dad, it is now forty-three years
that I am missing you,
as if I have lost you somewhere

and still I am waiting on the day
that your grave will break open
when the Father of fathers will come
to reach out His hand to you.