Its been a year now, dear father
since the day you left us here,
and yet somehow we feel that
you are just around, close and near.
Mother keeps your bag in the closet
she dust it every now and then;
the letters you wrote,
she never gets tired of reading
again and again.
The brushes you used,
the woods you used to paint,
the cigarettes filter that you have
left in the ashtray,
full of paint shirt you used to wear,
They are all just around
like you are just sitting somewhere in the house
Just like the old times.
I dont remember much about you.
You left when i was small,
that even the way you looked,
I simply cannot recall.
I never saw you in flesh
and i never heard your voice;
I never experience urging you
to buy me a toy.