After My Father’s Cremation by Pablo Medina
Outside now his ashes are blown by the wind through the eyes of ten needles. He was the poorest man, he was the richest man. He floats with one ear on the horizon and listens to the siren song of the flames. Too late to make excuses. His tongue tastes the skin of the sea. His lips are the waves breaking on the beach. Just a little note to finish. I have my father's ashes in my front room
preethy uthup
@peeli · 1:11
Hi, Katharine. I'm pretty here. And I was so really carried away by the way your friend put it across the poem, and yeah. The seasons that brings us memories of our dear ones, and, you know, it is it's it's very special, actually, and I think he has really given the essence to it, in his words