A black trickle of mourners were sucked
Towards the clayless plug-hole;
A ninety-one year old life about to be consumed.
I prayed that her spirit was soaring
Above in a heavenly orbit,
I recoiled at the notion of her lingering
At some lost and found.
I embraced many tearful bystanders,
Looking to reassure, but as much
To seek reassurance,
That at my journey's end,
My soul too, shall find safekeeping.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem