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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