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A poem for Daniel Hajan, A poem for a great friend of mine who's now in heaven. Playing those cards again, Filling this empty cup is my kind of den. Dreaming with Cassiopeia, Away from my Anhedonia. The tears of parquet, Are being dried by hay. The night have felt your presence, And the stars are smiling with happiness. More than a ray of sunshine, You are good enough to waste my time. I know you're still there, Painting our futures is not a dare. This silence is not a sad song For me or for us to be strong. I am still listening to your symphony, Like a coward found his bravery. I know we've had a lot, Down on our knees as our plot; For them is like a game, Cynically acting lame. Perhaps a poem and an abstract painting, Only a few can see the hidden meaning. But accordingly, fear not, And you shall not be afraid like a tightest knot. You're still here, And you will always be m. dear. I have read you. And now, I am writing to you but not in blue. A roseate and buoyant, I can scream your name in a rant, To see the fairness. Friendship is made from greatness. This rushing time Will give you rest in sublime. I missed you but don't worry, And I'll see you when Dew Drops in February.
