Nine

Nine. Nine years. Nine years, my father. It was long ago. Was it? The time - how it flees! My memories stay, however, father. Now my emotions more saturated are Less violent, less original, less raw But still there. Every eighteenth of June How it comes every year - Every year I wait it And then it goes: And I will again for the next year: And time, Time passes and I do not know (it seems) And the vulcan of my emotions Less violent, less original, less raw Is still there. Ah! father when emotions sublimated are And yet are still there How cold and warm at once The heart feels simultaneously! And memories do not pass. Within them encapsulate The emotions original, violent and raw. And I still weep now inwardly And tears from eyes have disappeared My iron forehead Still and yet Keeps its memories nine years aback and more. Nine. Nine years. Nine years, my father.