My father is sleeping
On our battered couch.
It is midnight,
and I am a child again.

I think of his earlier years
Eating on broken tables,
Empty pockets, but
Full hearts.
Spiders lurking in corners,
Observing him leaving before dawn,
And arriving post dusk.

His worn out face trembles a little.

I stare at his blistered hands,
Which moulded our lives,
And feel his gentle snores
Vibrating into my chest.
He sleeps like a rock,
Deeper than the ocean,
Travel-weary.

How long you stayed awake
All those years, guiding us,
Through turmoils and helplessness,
Creating lessons that will last
Past eternity.

Sleep, papa.
I hope that in this couch,
You dream well.
I am watching over you.
My time has come at last.