My father’s name,
Is like the open mouth of a roaring lion,
Every time you say it, it chills your spine.
My father’s words,
Are like the pinprick jolts from touching ice,
Every time you hear it, it shocks your mind.
My father is the colour of the underside of the moon.
He is the last stretch of dawn,
My father is the love of life, the breath giving air.
He is the expanse of a dewy field, the horizon,
The lilac clouds of evening.
My father is the bare look of a crying woman,
The flow of a gushing river,
the babble of a stream.
Like the harsh strokes of a coarse brush.
My father is the colour yellow, drenched in sadness,
wrung out and hung to dry over hope.
He is a straight line,
The only one of its kind,
in the eye of a storm.


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