I received a letter
informing me
that you were dead,
had been dead
about eight years.
It was from a firm
seeking to help claim
any money due
from the deceased.
Hard to see you
as the deceased.
Not seen you
in over thirty years.
No emotion, no tears;
end of an era which included
childhood and the odd times
after when I sought you out.
I didn't expect much:
you were often in debt
when I was a child;
they'd be lucky to cover
their search fees.
But you were a father of sorts,
if not a great one,
and a lousy husband.
Now they wrote
and said you had died.
That little boy who knew
you back then is sad
in my head, but never cried.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem