He sat quietly on the old wooden chair,
His wearied pale skin, half-alive
No words came out of his mouth,
But I heard millions coming from his heart

Gently, he drank a cup of water
"My finger really hurts," I said.
With a crook smile he replied,
"If I cut it off, it'll be better"

His words seemed distant,
When he spoke,
Locked in my heart.
And that’s where the stay.

He had a rough couple of hours,
And to bed he went,
I left the house,
Forgetting to remind him,
How much he meant.

Hours, days, and week past,
Of not seeing him,
Impatiently I had asked my mom,
"How's Ernesto doing?"
She would say Fine or Okay
I did not believe her.

At night,
I would pray for his health,
For him to live,
I'd picture him talking,
And laughing endlessly.

Those were just illusion,
December 31 came,
Wishing him a better year,
With more years of life.

We received a call,
Ernesto was tired
And took a nap,
A forever-lasting nap.

The uncontrollable pound
In my heart,
The black hole,
In my life.

He lays six feet underground,
He breathes above the sky,
He smiles in my heart,
And replays:
"My finger really hurts," I said.
"If I cut it off, it'll be better"
In my ears…

The cold touch of his forehead,
I can still feel on my lips.
As I whispered goodbye,
While he laid on the
New wooden casket.