Like Scheherazade, you never ran out of stories.
It was comforting to know you were still alive and writing.
You jumped out of your books and read to us,
A comical, eloquent, insightful, sweet, so human friend
Available at all times.
Night after night you showed up at bedtime.
Sometimes you made us laugh so hard
We found it difficult to sleep.
Sometimes we shared your grief.
You gave the writer's gift, a gift to strangers
And to the future.
Thanks, and a most good night to you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem