sickness still remains a sting
that steals vitality, keenly fed
on anguish bled from trauma
deep, tension wed to agony in
thrall to grief; no pleasure left
to ease ambiguous disgrace
endured as much inured and
endlessly emphatic pain
treachery has schemed in wine
to solace-seek with shame;
I sip inspired on fine and aged
epitomes of grace – memories
weave lines embracing
features of your face
© 2 July 2009, I. D. Carswell
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem