O Son, you were a sapling in your spring
Your branches hadn’t yet sprouted buds
At times, like golden gleam of wheat
At times, a carnation on its branch
You were still a green fruit on the branch
Not yet a grape
Harvest ground was left empty, Son
You were ment for spring, Son
Not winter
O son, in a distant, lonely land
Whom did your eyes seek
In your final breath?
Which words choked in your throat?
It didn’t suit you, Son
To embrace the soil as your final love
The soil didn’t suit you
A groom’s suit would fit you better, Son
You had grown so tall
Reaching toward the sun
Like a sunflower, Son
Leaving pain in the hearts, you went
Cursed be the name of death.