Cantiga para meu pai
relatively simple to answer, no
even if my father could read this verse
poetry that makes grown men cry, may try
overtly, not unlike a film on loss
everyone loses someone, though to show
maps of pain and sorrow becomes a curse
sketched by an artist, wrinkles and crow's feet
work their masterpiece across each man's cross
relatively impossible to ape
if I were smart enough, we could have spoke
turbulent relationships form a shape
tormented and troubled, as if a joke
experienced by all were told to cheat
neurosurgeons and rocket scientists
traumatically, of their sense of status
of course, the trauma is mediocre
maybe it would make someone slash their wrists
as if suicide were the basest act
kiss the girls and make them cry, the stratus
evokes dark clouds of war, a pawnbroker
gains from artifacts found after a dig
relatively unknown, the truth as fact
obviously uncovered, once hidden
working archeologists play along
nothing lost, nothing gained, words unbidden
minister to the dying what went wrong
even if it were just a big, fat pig
nothing gained without loss but at what cost
crimes against the state make other men poor
relatively stupid, I am a boor
yet, bad faith guides me to those I have lost
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