has been a season of grief.
Always, it is so,
I suppose.
Death takes no holidays,
does not fold his broad wings
nor spare
what they enclose.
Death could not stop for these
Twelve Days,
for still he must make his call
on those we know.
And so
(though we believe) ,
in this His Season
still we grieve.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem