The mirrors told her t.v. story.
Like a t.v. dinner, predictable.
As a child, dreaming of a prince,
She thought she might be Queen -
At least, in her imagination.
Too late, the hair blonded,
Cut and made to measure
In imitation of the people's dream,
She never knew she could merely aspire,
Not fulfil the only desire she ever had,
Never having realized
That when it comes to love
No-one is perfect,
Each must SELECT.
2002
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
An attempt, I guess, to respond to the sentimental claptrap that multiplied after Diana's death. Gavin Bantock wrote something much more skilful and complete later, but I don't know if his poem ever appeared in print.