I was dreaming,
Yet wished I were not.
He was sitting there
In the wheeled chair,
My Father; living.
It couldn't be!
He's been gone for years.
Still, there he sat, alone,
No longer sixty-four.
He had aged; progressed.
I stood there,
Unable to speak, mute,
Hoping it was true.
About to approach him,
I woke; disappointed
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Sometimes longing for a lost one creates imagination vivid.good write .Thank you for sharing