into that

the winter is real
here, in the place called homeland
where we are expected to want to be buried

the death is real too
it has so many faces, but this time
it seemed familiar, like relative of mine

was it my grandpa?
looking like a sculpture of deceased old man
from the museum of Madame Tussauds?

I didn't dare touch
the cold of it - my body still remembered
his warm embrace in August, when I said: "see you"

lighthearted as I am
pretending there are no goodbyes forever
and love is only true if can't be lost

my mind still replayed
his weakened voice, in my imagination
I still could smell how he was giving up

towards the end
he was just skin and bones
just bitterness and disappointment
 
with life that tricked him
by being generous for very long
then slowly taking back all it has given

so standing by his absence
I prayed that contrary to famous poem line
he would (did he?) go very very gentle

into whatever he was going into 
dropping his body with instructions clear
"my life was fire, burn my death to ashes"