We talk. We eat. We sleep.

We walk down the road along the morning breeze,

We argue. We fight. 

I can still see you in the morning light.

They say none of these are real

Ignorant, they don't see the truth

You live in my existence,

your existence, a truth the world doesn't want to believe.

I still fight to bring you back.

You exist. You do. 

Not in shadows but in real.

One year has passed since your funeral, Baba.

But I can still hear your call.

You are bored of the story
For long you have been reading it.
Don't you like to know the climax?
I wonder.
The book lies in your desk,
each day, you just watch it dust
sometimes you visit the story
but you are not sure if you like it anymore
You don't complete the book
nor you read something else.
But the story of the book waits,
in silence, patiently.
Awaiting to fulfill its destiny.

Now words fail us,
like strangers we sit,
across a long dark night.
The silence breaks sometimes,
Thanks to the waft of our breath.
I still find music in your silence,
but you fail to decipher the lyrics.
What has befallen you, my love?
What has befallen you?