Cry of the fatherless son

I will not mourn my father's death

I won't even be struck by his death.

I will not contribute a coin to buy his coffin,

Or for the funeral which I won't even attend.

As is the custom,

I won't name my first son after him.

My children won't ever see photos of him.

I will not tell them tales

that my father supposedly told me.

His name in my house will never ring a bell,

Neither will he ring my doorbell -

For if he does I will let my dogs loose on him,

no matter how old and frail he'll be.

His name in my house shall be forbidden.

But how could I mourn your death?

How would your death strike me?

How could I contribute to your funeral?

Or attend your funeral?

As is custom,

how should I name my son after you?

And how would my children see your photos?

What tales did you tell me,

so I can tell them?

How could your name even ring a bell,

Or you ring my doorbell?

How would I let my dogs loose on you,

An old stranger that I haven't

My eyes set on?

Forgive me, father

That's as bad a son as you brought here.

This poem was inspired by the story of a young boy I met. I had asked a question about his father, said he had no father, I asked if he had passed on. He cried and told me that he never knew him.