What he remembers
Are the endless days
Spent waiting for the knock
That would take him away
Excitement turned to fear
He was never the same
This man was dead to him
For that knock never came
Thirty years later
A drunk, broken man
Kneeled begging on his doorstep
As he told him his plan
'Son, I'm your father'
The man said, half-cocked
He shut the door with pity
Saying 'you should've knocked'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem