A colored pencil in his hand
and freckles on his face,
and the Night sky as a notebook
for newly learned words,
I recognize him, could he recognize me?
At that time, every drop of rain
was a tear of God,
and every house in his drawings
had a window on the true World.
Now only the memories remain.
Between grief and grace
there is almost no difference.
why do we have to leave you?
© Frédéric Georges Martin