Him

He stood there, 

like a poplar in winter.

The wind still for him,

so does time.

He is forty years old,

and the world loved him for forty years.

In the most graceful way he is aging,

with every wrinkle being kissed by angels.

If God does exist,

if human beings were created,

God's own form must be used,

to create this man.

By his voice,

by his existence,

I hear dolphins clap their hands.

I hear the wind kisses the top of Alps.

I see the starlights on the Baltic Sea,

beneath where sing the sirens.

Thus sunshine finally shine into my winter that had lasted so long.

He named all the heroes in my poems written.

In all my works after,

this piece of memory will inevitably forever lasts.