the dead lie dreamless in their cribs,
life leached out but never missed -
apart from those whose memory serves
realities memes, and sounds and words.
each death subtracts from friends and kin,
a part of ego now caves in,
so loss of love and self's support,
feeds the shadow: always worn.
Is grief on death about those lost
whose place in time has become full stop?
or is it guilt, shadow fed,
of all we meant yet left unsaid?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem