How futile it all seemed before you
and after you how it all seemed
fulfilled,
my little son.

How stupid to delay life from you
and from my dimples that welcome you
like two open arms.

Being happy simply doesn’t describe it
when I kiss you.
Being you father simply doesn’t describe it
when I hug you
and embrace the world, in disbelief
when I fold your baby clothes.
Nothing describes it
when I wipe your bum
and thank myself for you
What is it I lack when
I’m with you.

From now on, I have no need for metaphors
similes and tropes from the lexicon
no need for intertextuality or counterpoint or ambiguity
All this poem needs is
that I explain the secret of being a father
as it looks for female breast
to suckle you
so beautiful you are!

I tasted all pleasures
and roamed every corner of realist imagination
and fastened poems with the lexicon of my experience
and stretched out on high clouds
and rubbed the back of the wind;
all was wonderful before you
after you it seemed none of that had ever been.
Nothing is more beautiful now
than to race to you when you cry at night
and hug you
so good you are!

Slowly I was growing older
and age grows longer in the tooth every year
and despite my easy life, I knew that
I was heading to its end
but did not disturb peace of mind with fear of the unknown
since I suspected death was the final plan right from the beginning
and that time is short in the busy life.
Thank you
not for the joy you gave me
but because you shattered my pessimism
and made life orbit around me.
Say, ‘You’re welcome,’ so we might be replete with you
me and the poem.