How many times, dear son of my own flesh and blood,
Did you reach home so deeply saddened and confused,
Condemned by a malaise...
Without remedy, without relief...

Your incoherent words,
The lackadaisical dress.
Tell-tale symptoms of the schizophrenia
That governed your existence...

And you chose to end your days,
To ease the hurt,
At last to rest.

The afternoons will no longer find us chatting
On the doorstep of the house,
And we won't be playing
Another game of chess...

Now we exist as different dimensions,
But with faith
I shall find you once again.