Waiting for the Son
A father’s head,
Which is hooked to sleep in an armchair,
Swings like a pendulum,
Awaiting the shocking knock on his heart.
Wandering in a street
In the hashish lit nights,
Dear son always fades the spectrum of love.
As the venomous leaves
Hide the moon of innocence,
A pair of eyes glares among the lawless twigs.
Thorns on a stepmother’s tongue
Had pricked him constantly.
He washes out the wounds with drops of rum.
A midnight fox howls,
And the father’s disquietude deepens further.
But he never thinks
He is always among the defunct domestic goods
In his son’s shed.
Dear son walks miles through the graveled road,
When the father’s shoes wear out.
Hinges grate as usual,
The son passes by in silence, mindless of the midnight.
Now the father can sprawl on love’s pain in his bedroom.