(A pang of nostalgic recollection of my late dad)
Impious villains would want to vanish from history
Your triumph over sham and shenanigans gory
That has vanquished this wanton world;
But they care not about your ecclesiastical fortitude
That lit the warrens of darkness untold.
Many of hearts corrupt would like easily forgotten
The sterling legacy of your service devout;
Yet this never can be for tongues a match,
Since the battle upon the cross was fiercely fought
And won for you by our Savior chaste.
No one knows the repose of the grave
Save that in it breathless was laid;
No mortal knows what resplendence
Adorns the Savior's abode,
Except him that by the Lord was called.
Though my heart for your warmth cries,
And your wit the world forever shall miss,
Methinks the Creator better use for both did find
And away kept them from us who best defile
Whatever is to us good and kind.
I count months now on the verge of eleven,
When your breath was no more,
When that little friend made that historical call
And delivered the sorrowing tidings
Of the inconsolable loss of a jewel so dear.
Of words on this sorrowing account
Short I never can fall,
And since what the Father's arm has wrought
None with it can grapple,
A departure in peace your soul I wish,
Till the eternal feast in the Savior's fold.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem