The young child dies at maturity,
but the defiant teenager lives on-
transformed, quiescent.
The child as far from life, as the living from death-
Where did you go to, child with such brazen hopes
not realizing death comes to the young predictably?
Don't fear; I bludgeoned you with kind hands
for all your uncanny knowledge
forgotten upon the pain of dying.
Placidly, we washed your stilled heart,
gathered stones your only monument
(Though sometimes the dreams still come,
like living wings trapped between worlds.)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Goose bumps! Wonderful food for thought, great imagery, no wonder my eyes are moisted, thank you!