In quiet corners of the mind, they dwell,
His father’s stern gaze, his mother’s soft spell,
Echoes of voices in the chambers of time,
Crafting his world, both austere and sublime.

His father, a man of rigid resolve,
Teaching through silence, lessons deep and involved,
The weight of his presence, a shadow so vast,
Shaping the poet, through memories cast.

His mother, a beacon of nurturing light,
With whispers of kindness, in the dark of night,
Her warmth like a blanket, in the cold of despair,
A comfort in moments of life’s wear and tear.

Together they formed the man and the muse,
A tapestry woven from contrasts and hues,
In Philip’s verses, their spirits remain,
A testament to love, to joy, and to pain.