I had a cousin once. Older than me.

When he was five, I was just about three.

Boštjan was the name he'd been given to wear.

All of his toys he'd been willing to share.

There was a heart disease he'd been born with.

Won't live past his teens, doctors said. And it hit

his parents hard. A prediction that bad ...

His mother got cancer and soon, she was dead.

My dad said Boštjan had her eyes and her smile,

he was determined to last for a while.

Banned to play soccer for life! What he said?

»I can be a goalie!« A nod from his dad.

Eighteen years old and a mailman. You see,

he was great with people. Not awkward like me.

With each of his letters a signature smile,

he was determined to last for a while.

Thirty-three years. »Don't waste candles on me!

Write me a poem or plant me a tree.«

His dying wish. Well, a maple I chose.

Instead of a candle I came with a rose.

Sixteen years later ... Some visit I had!

Archangel Michael. Almost wet my bed.

»Here is a letter. Boštjan says hello.«

Mustered my courage. Replied: »Read it slow.«

»Slowly, you mean,« Michael said with a smile.

»Hello, dear cousin. No i-phone to dial ...

Therefore, a letter. My maple shall grow,

here are some sidenotes I think you should know.

Don't fear the devil. No ticket to hell,

unless you buy what the preacher might sell.

Same goes with karma. You don't incarnate

over and over, unless you choose, mate!

I know you caught sight of that Darius J. Wright.

Much of his truth resonates, just feels right.

Your soul is eternal and other side real,

love is indeed only currency here.

Great to create! All those poems you write

sparkle like fireflies, sharing the light.

Just a few readers? Might give it some time.

Boundless, the power that lives in a rhyme.

Cousin, let's not make this letter too long.

Not easy from here to deliver a song.

Winter ... Can you make a snowman for me?

Sometimes you worry too much. Let it be.«

Tracks of my tears and afloat in midair,

one pearly white feather. Seems angels do care.

All that was left were those rhymes in my ears.

That poem I owe to Boštjan, it appears.

Matjaž Lutarič - Lynx