Sixty years barely would be enough
To call him on a laugh.
Sixty years may sound like a long bark,
Trying to make him talk.
Though, we remember the smile of him:
Vicious and genius, but thin.
Though, we miss his silent presence;
He’s somewhere behind a fence.
Under his hands, hundreds of scenes run
Without a frame of him having fun.
He’s a wizard – a video cutter little elf,
But the best he cuts himself.
He plays with layers like “my friends”,
Then, he hides it till it ends.
He himself is born as a layer by his parent,
Named himself as transparent.
We remember a broken-blond hair,
Being among us in pair,
But who could wait till he would arrive:
Chris, the boy who’s almost alive.