In this garden of stone
I reflect on my own
Of the journey that grief has imposed:
Those first sad raw days
When I walked in a daze
At the loss of a parent I loved.
Grief’s first taste is bitter
And only slowly gets better;
An acquired perspective I think.
It must be endured
Or else it consumes
those who seek false refuge in drink.
To love and be loved
Always carries this cost:
The Reaper insists on division.
The survivor condemned
To weep bitter tears
For that is the price of admission.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Sadly reminded of the bittersweet, when one, loved, then lost, turns from our street. As the anniversary of my own father's passing nears...I came across your beautiful scripted words, with a tear...and then, a smile. Thank you for allowing me in. PEACE