In the land of my father,

there are landscapes

sculpted with summery imagination,

there is life

stemming out of scattered shingle,

antiquity in its breath

that become textures in cities colored bright.

I count the lands that I have seen

and those from your eyes

through the tales you’ve told me,

I will only have to count the stars

festooning the sky

to count the hearts

that you have touched.

Seated under my trophies, you asked-

What use is a flute without a song?

A body out of character?

Answers without deeds,

And it is only now

that I have found

my slight life’s meaning

written almost lyrically

in them.

In the land where you parted

with your wear ,

we slipped into your attire

with straight backs

and humble heads.

We were the birds

who carried your shroud

with brave eyes

letting our hearts

cry some diamonds

as we held on to your

bare spirit.

We let it steer our stories

today, tomorrow and forever,

as we attempt to grow as tall

as the great outlines you set

and call it triumph

if we could

by our end

become a wisp of your impression.