My fathers death was not quick but slow,
now in winters blows I feel his cold,
the heart is burning bright,
in such dim light,
snow betting down,
near the place I work,
fifty years later I drive down the same roads,
the shadow stands upon me out the windows,
I am now old, into winters quake.
to rest to soon for me,
but now at heavens gate again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem