“Cela Doit Te Suffire”

Pages swirling in the wind
From the window left unlatched
Just her lock of hair, now pinned
Remained atop the wood, untouched.
The old man sat in deep slumber,
As the sound of booming thunder
Was announcing the grey storm
That had left his notebook torn.
He slumbers for in dreams he meets
The one lost daughter that he seeks
To exchange one last good-bye,
Night after night, he shuts his eye,
And so he sleeps, meanwhile not knowing
Of the rage the storm was throwing,
Of the pages that were swaying
To the tune the wind was playing.
One white sheet was standing still,
On top of it there was a quill.
The old man’s hand was raising slowly
As if controlled by force unholy.
He grabs the quill and starts to scribble,
On the page the ink would trickle,
Leaving sharp marks on paper, deep
As the man wrote in his sleep.
Cold turned his breath to silver wisps,
Her name: Julia, left his lips.
