My old man grieves. My old man grieves a lot. Of the things he thought through, And of the things he couldn't see through. Of the bridges he hung on his shoulders, Of the skies he couldn't paint blue. Of the grasses he thought would turn up green, Of the fishes he though would learn themselves to swim.
My old man thinks of a box he wishes he could bury young. He talks about the pebble he thought of as dime, He couldn't just save them all, cause for him they lost their value with time. He talks about streets and narrow lanes, the strings that caught up in wires, and untangling the kite of his thoughts, he found pretty lame.
He talks of the lovers he couldn't pursue. The teas that went stale, For now he smokes cigars waiting to die, writing poetries on his beloveds' grave. He covers up his memories like how he told us about the wine stains, He wishes he could just go back to his time, chruning his wheat from old grains.
My old man tears up a lot these days, Of the days he couldn't feel alive, We think he's still got time, While he dies with breaths counting his lies.