Papa always said, “Don’t abscond away from your problems, face them with a mighty smile.
With your valour, lull the hearts of those who are frightened and fragile.
With your wisdom, enlighten the minds of those who are worthwhile.”
In every battle with math, he had been my sword, not my shield.
He taught me how to wield,
and today I can courageously march into any battlefield
His thin, white handkerchief comfortingly dried every single tear,
his warm embrace was a solace during every fear,
but, soon, a horrifying infirmity made it all disappear
I often see his, now almost unfamiliar face in my sleep,
every day, his memories linger and creep,
and my heart pangs to know that this is all I can keep.
His absence is evidently agonizing and an obvious abhorrence,
but maybe, his passing was better for him,
considering the ambience.
Then, why does my heart grieve, even if it’ll only be an unendurable indulgence?
Papa always said, “You are not in solitude, I am with you, I swear,”
as he would gently stroke my hair.
However, today, his pulchritudinous memories and pictures are the only things there.
