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Haunting Tulips

Standing, I am standing

On this partially arid soil

Overlooking a foretold place.

From my son's cheerful tone, 

It was the land of their bliss;

My lips could not help but open ajar

By the grandeur. 


"This is where I will be planting my seeds," 

Echoing in me persistently.

My son in delight―his eyes did not lie.


"Father, I am not okay..."

The latter had forced me to laugh.

I stared at his hazelnut eyes―

Our truly few facsimile―

I could tell from his lips

The shouted grace. For that is a man's temperament,

From my ancient roots I revere!

I had been waking up with contentment

For I hold on to the identity of a man.

I had always been doing it while displaying my veins.


It was Wednesday afternoon of July 19th when I visited;

The flowers I had placed upon the Bermuda grass months ago were still intact.

I sat where he sowed the monsters

that devoured his abyssal reality.


Therein, autumnal leaves clung on my shoulders,

"Are these you, son?" 

Pledging my servility to my ancient roots.


I gave you what you wanted;

I was the best father?

Yet, nostalgia of 2017 is still haunting.

A yearlong wait for him to ring the bell.


Finally, I laid nine petals on my jeans that his mother used to weave.

My late wife, spare me.


Rome, son, dear, I ask for forgiveness;

Could you still smell it? These tulips are my elegy.

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