To a Late Friend
No more asking of “what” and “why”;
As always, silence replaces the weeping.
I keep repeating that you are not alive,
But you are not dead either, you are just sleeping.
I hear your steps on the staircase,
Your voice rushes in, then, the smell of your hair.
You smile at me, and I look through your face
As the cold of eternity fills up the air
And rests on the lifeless face of the Moon...
I am confused, I am cross again.
Why did you have to leave so soon?
What made you get on the wrong train?
My mind wonders along the street,
My palms are sweating, my forehead is hot.
Should we feel guilty and burn in the heat,
Because we are here, and you are not?
I search through the maze in the Southern sky;
Then, I notice your shadow not far;
I foot the temptation of questioning “why”
And awe at the sight of your beautiful star.