When all is said and done, and when all the tears are wept,
in the aftermath, of the funeral; alone here we are, you and I
choking upon, our tears and words; watching, the teapot burn
waiting, as if the crowing rooster will bring better news,
upon the hearth, we await, the morning dawn, silently.
Unlike us -the sun, the moon; they didn't change their ways -
the day is as bright, and the night is as dark, as always,
Here again, alone, upon the hearth, we sit - you and I -
wary of the bellows, of the lost calves, unconscientiously
as if they were, to herald, a news, somewhat different
eyeing the closed door- continuously, suspiciously.
Time passed, or so they say; and back to our routine, we try
and in the midst, we thought, of the abnormality of our day -
as if the sky broke, the bitter undigested tears, it rains-
a thousand knives, stabbing our heart, sobbing a riot,
-it's real, it's true, that Dad will, never, ever, be back...