Many call you George
Others call you Q
I know you by a different name,
But I know that you are you.
You paid your rent
They stole your home
Returned it without consent
in a shape less like your original dome.
Your home was in Flora’s Garden
Some saw your maison as a bench
They do not know French,
I beg your pardon.
You opened your door, closed it and made your way
We still don’t know your birthday
Some gave you Christmas presents
Others a cupper, a meal or a cinnamon bun
But it was not you, but us that were always on the run.
A gentle hand under your glove
wearing your black thick outdoor clothing
putting one hand on the heart in gratitude
You did nothing to exclude, but society failed to include.
Your way is imposing
Many gave you things
You kept your integrity
Your identity is still unknown
It is not enough with our empathy.
You were found and moved by people in white capes
You moved many of us in different shapes
You left us in December,
But I know that we will always remember
you did not pass unnoticed
on your way to the remotest.
The funeral is not set yet
Many want to show their condolences
I make my bet
Where you are going;
there will be a lot less nonsenses
Our lit candles are now glowing.
Many called you George
Others called you Q
I knew you by a different name,
But I know that you are still you.