Alienation

You may be wondering dearest sunflower,

about the prolonged absence of your father,
longing for his stare while you take a shower,
searching for his lips in the middle of lather.

He misses your eyes in spite of the distance,
those magnanimous nebulas shining in darkness,
containing a profound enigma of persistence,
that avoided his spirits living in starkness.

For he will be unfortunately absent
when both your feet kiss the floor,
greeting the world while enjoying the balance,
feeling powerful, upright, ready to explore.

A dead present on a moribund Christmas night
will fill the soul with melancholy,
depriving him from the expansion of your sight
at the purest act of a toy beholding.

You will contemplate the first translation of the sun,
imagining him coming along with the star,
burning your cheeks like a sorrowful son,
when its rays tattoo your skin with just his memoirs.

Then you would perhaps utter your first words,
repeating “dada” as he taught you in the womb,
yet his ears will not be around to catch your waves,
which will easily die in the vastness of the room.

What will the future of the Anglo language be?
What will come about with the research project?
The challenge of your personal tongue will cowardly flee,
dissolving foreign syllables as a corroded object.

The English books will thus be invaded
with the implacable scratch of dust and carelessness,
no sound will make them alive and their pages so faded
will condemn them to a miserable fate of forgetfulness.

Your absenteeism is the nourishment of his death,
of an internal pressure that is softly killing his will,
his existence upon your life an asphyxiating breath,
where souvenirs sadly fade out like erasable ink.