I feel ill, a union

of physical and mental

failure, a state

of being on my knees,

as the world, life

turn and capsize.

My father, he died

on this floor I lay on,

remade by him, I

have forgotten the colour

it had, on that day

I first stepped in.

I only recall, remember,

the light of that day.

The light of all, of all

the coming days and years,

until now, on floorboards

he set, I seek the feeling

of his hands that placed them,

those hard, work-scarred

hands that still in that photo

wash me, few months old.

I don't think he was ever as happy

with me afterwards, as he was then.

14.04.2017