Eliezier

Running into the waves of memories,
Books of monument flipped across the room,
The winds playing the pages of rhythms,
Sound of whispers that echoed a fading song,
Moonlights were dressing up his newly home,
With green lawns embracing the negro blanket above him,
In a sleep of no wake, no morning neither crepuscule,
As the letters of his name tripped in those diaries,
At his name, I recalled him, son of a polite woman,
A flower that bloomed a little then departed too soon,
So I waited, to write him in absence, with words saying,
Even though the ground swallowed you to take a rest,
I still remember that day, we met as classmates.