If I were to talk about a father
the arcs of his ears are enough,
the arcs of his ears are enough,
yet, he would not talk,
just like the heavens
when you plead,
as he is better now:
he does not hide in his paternal loop,
nor would he ridicule my son I have been hiding.
He once knew that what was not written
was unprincipled;
now, I talk and he pertinaciously listens,
unbothered by my pretentious tone.
He speaks, but only at night—
with his melted heart.
I taught him to be more man:
now, he would cling to me as if I were
a wife who cooks for her.
I used to watch him with Mom's self-made perspective; however, sometimes, you really have to switch taste—I still love horror,
but not anymore from my father's.
After all, he still sees the child in me
and the afraid.
A father should be called pink
and he shall not flinch.
Freed from guns and loads,
and he shall not be defeated;
for he is still, and abandon is not his last name,
as I still reweave his first name in my poems.
He has been with me:
inherited every fiber of his clothing—
not overly worn,
as it now fits me.
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