I'm thinking, Dad, that soon, maybe, we'll meet;
at least, that's how it seems from what I hear;
the info's not at all clear on this point:
like, where exactly; and what will I wear,
and shall I bring you something; if so, what?
I'm not too easy, Dad, about all this:
like, am I sure to find you in that lot?
And, will we treat each other like - we did,
or as we should now (God knows how you'll be...) :
and, will we need to talk about past pain?
('cos that's what's really, really bugging me...) :
or can we wipe the slate clean, start again?
Dad - were you proud of me? You never said...
Dad - love you; are things better, now you're dead?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem