Death Bed - Poem by Gert Strydom
I whish I were there
to hold my father’s hand
when the last power of life
went through him, when he struggled for words,
but couldn’t talk
and every breath was like his last.
I now see myself sitting at his bed,
wiping the sweat from his head,
adjusting the bed more comfortable
but am I am already older than him
and when I was only three
and he died, I could not say:
that I am forever his child
and that I still love him defencelessly.
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