PAPA; A GREAT MAN.
I woke up and
The children were
Disagreeing on faces;
Who has father’s face?
My daughter’s voice on the ceiling.
Their voices echoed through my mind
Searching for my father’s
Through the pages.
All I could see was mound of clay
Played on by the elements.
No marble
No epitaph
Except the one written on my mind;
‘Here sleeps a great man’.
Papa left without a print
Nor a mark on canvas
Mama said he had
But all was lost
Before the soldiers left the trenches.
I could hear her story;
''We returned home
Some returnees met their homes burnt
Some with holes defaced with our hero’s blood
And a few lucky ones standing were without treasure.
Papa left soon after.
There was no doctor to say
‘I am sorry’
Nor a nurse to clean our wounds’’.
From mama’s story;
On nimble feet
Not knowing that papa had set on a journey
I searched for him.
With the passing years,
All I could find was vegetation
And sweet songs descending from the trees
When mama was not there
To tell me a story.
It is always painful trying to find papa’s face
Through this foggy landscape
Never registered for a recall.
As my mind echoes through the void
Shouting ’papa, papa’
I could hear him call ‘my son’
I feel my feeble body
In the cloak of his arm as
He looks into my eyes
Telling me his story.
I believe he never knew
The journey was for a while.
His friends say
He was a great dancer.
He came to the stage
Performed,
But left when the theater was half full
Leaving me with different designs of his face
Buried in friendly tales.
This is the face I have
Of my papa;
A great man.
