The Day Before Your Funeral

Cold, gray mid-day, the day

before your funeral. Nothing

moves outside. I'm shivering,

drinking bad coffee, black,

ran out of milk. In this

room where you spent

so much time, you died. Soon

three weeks, and tomorrow

I will be carrying

you to your grave, far

from where you were born,

at a sauna among the

ruins of a burned town. So

many years, so short

a life, you both

now, my father

and my mother, away

in the cold ground,

and your faith in

me, what I have to

show for it? All

those sacrifices, all

what you did and

what you gave up -

nothing, nothing.

Just years like

last summer's dead weeds

breaking through

the snow of the past.

16.02.2017