Untaxed beneath her frail frame,
The sturdy armchair squatted.
Her hands, that had yielded all opacity,
Dangled loosely from cardiganed wrists,
The gauze-like skin revealing a road map of veins,
Still transporting their vintage claret.
Her heart yet harboured reserves of joy,
Which leaked girlishly in titters;
For though Alzheimer's had done it's utmost
To blunt the senses,
Her humour remained sharp and defiant.
So too did her compulsion to rebuke parental slipshoddiness.
Now it's angels who fear straying from best practise.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Great poem about death and old age done with much wit and charm : 0) Paul