Her characteristics decompose.
The slow but sure putrefactive process
is working assiduously
as hard earned odiferous grave clothes
become the drape of time.
It's not long before she begins to stink.
Those once lovely limbs of kindness,
compassion and the anatomical joy
of diving for a honey muffin
separate from her bones like the meat
of medium rare New York Strips.
Even the soft red marrow of her understanding
turns obstinate and calcified,
sticks to a place where your tongue can't reach it.
The further along you get
the greater and more powerful becomes the realization
that something once wonderful is dying.
From energy to ashes in an instant-
a bag of wet powder-
exposed hip bones, inominates,
and other mysterious sockets are revealed.
As much as you might like it
you can't get close enough to hold her.
Your friend, the coroner, warned you,
but you refused to believe
that someday she would just lay there.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like this a lot. The words you used made the difference. It's tremendous.