You grow and I get old
we swing as weeds get cut
your voice tones up, my hair turns white
the noise of days getting bye
becomes a signature on your diary
the digital involvement
pales at my return
when I hug you after months
and so much of you is upset
we throw our dice right in the middle
your revolution, my nostalgia
we whip our days ignoring
that time is selflessly marathon training
since we first met in mum’s belly
and you were smaller than a thought
than a fear, than a hope
and now you are the baby I wish I had
the pipe dream I sealed in a bottle
and poured in the sea of realism
Clips and Pages 