Departure Poem by Cyrus Diaz

My gaze rest on his chair
When he use to sit
I saw his face,
white as the lilies in the valley
his cheeks so rosy,
his eyes, green as the
fern on the wayside.
Each breathe on his flute
creates a lovely notes
melding in the wind.
then, he left away,
the sprays of the prow
as the boat go
the sun behind
the cloud as he goes.
silence deep as the lake
quiet as the butterfly's flight.
desolate...
My thoughts of him
are like the creeping grass
that grows and spread without end
wanting to see him return
the ferns turned gray,
the trees grows wrinkled
and old.