When My father puts his shirt in the corner
in the evening after work,
it slowly curls into a heap like a sigh,
I see it every day ..his soiled shirt.
with the days dust of the road he takes
it has the smell of my father in it,
in each fiber i smell life.
it fills the room with tales,
of my dreams for him ..his bliss for us.
my father's shirt is like a glorious flag
telling the winds of rain he felt
the truth of his words seeps through it,
and the silence of struggles gives it grace.
it is from the valley of melancholy
like a bird lost its flock,
it sits in the corner filled with dust
of love,struggle and a handful of hopes...
