A dead umbrella 

“Be like your father” 

The inimitable pronunciation would pour into ears 

burning lava 

smoky

I have never seen lava, but I swear 

there was nothing less warm than lava in those words. 

Still, one day, with my all patience 

when I myself became 

a father 

When I saw that from inside each sound “father” comes out 

an umbrella 

or an ‘old umbrella’ 

whose cloth is decorated with two and a half hundred holes 

through each hole comes down a seed of a new universe 

a seed is a forest 

a forest is a civilization 

and I realized that I too am a tree 

in that forest sprouting like a leaky umbrella 

in some drowsy corner 

I too have to calculate how much shade 

I can give to my child 

or how much winter warmth I can give? 

And when all these credit and debit are washed off 

again I am on the battlefield like a 

dead umbrella 

A wild slogan will fall through all the living or dead holes 

“I will never be like my father!”