Christian,
hold your soulful tongue.
I'm not here to be,
your quiet timid one.
Your views are pure and holy,
and your eyes of peace of mind.
But life so long and lonely,
is not nearly quite as kind.
The children are your fondness,
like music to your ears.
But time has been degraded,
by the crying of their tears.
So go take your well words,
and place them without my sight.
For I must go on to bury,
my only child tonight.
December 1985
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem