His hands knotted tight, pulled up towards his face
Stick-like arms, seemingly blocking the world
On his side, often adjusting is body
His breathing ragged and irregular
His eyes quarter open, focus not there
His mouth gaping, peacefully letting go
My father is no longer of this world
Tittering on the edge of the next stage
What images are with him, deep inside?
Does he walk the world of his youth?
Does he now revisit those vivid scenes
Long faded from his daily conscious world?
What images, thoughts, memories and dreams
Will be there waiting for us at the end
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem