Every time I look at his photograph An album of memories— Not in black and white, Full of colors, Full of joy—flashes like real Waves, it makes me feel alive. Every time I look at his photograph I remember his sunny or sullen face, His voice, His song But not his scent; for even A withered rose loses its own scent. Every time I look at his photograph I would hear my mom crying, Loud and sad. Full of emptiness, My heart desires to feel his presence. And every day I’m afraid for this to fade.