when they die
at places distant lie
whom we love
as dearly as a dove
whose voice too
we never hear
whose smiles too
we never bear
only in distant memory
like a fading Spring
or a vanishing rainbow
we remember them
brilliantly etched
in the colourful memory stretched
do they really die to us
whom we love so dearly
cherish so preciously
out of sight
yet beautifully imprinted
in the memory in sight
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem