When the 12th of July blooms as a painful memory,
I whisper your name, Bayaraja, in quiet reverence—
Not a day passes without you stirring my heart.
That fateful morning still seizes me,
Paralysing my soul just as it did when you left,
Yet your uplifting words echo through every corner of our home.
I know you listen beyond the veil of silence;
You have left behind familiar paths—
The worn porch steps, the quiet refuge of your library,
Your cherished corner at the Hamam,
and even the old coffee mug,
Silently now on a mug rack.
Each relic holds your spirit, untouched by time,
while my heart stumbles, missing its steady beat,
like a car passing through Malkha—briefly pausing, then moving on,
carrying the faint scent of your presence along the way.
Rest now in eternal peace, dear brother,
for in every remembered moment,
You have become eternal.