Thank You

I see a man visiting the graveyard every morning, with a bouquet in his delicate hands—lilies and tulips. He presents them to his wife, a soul lively among the flowers of paradise. He remembers her choices, everything she adored and despised. How considerate but yet so unfortunate, "a victim of destiny," as he claims. He kneels down at her grave, his love thrusts the rock and cement. With tears hurrying down his warm skin, the ego one again failed to conceal. I wish I could comfort him. but hearing me is beyond his ability. From six feet deep under this ground where he stands. May my gratitude be the only thing he understands...