My loss of you will be a minor
thing,
unnoticing, the seasons yet will
flow
continue waltzing proud with
beauty
through the myriad months they
know.
And still will seeds long since
been sown,
give birth to buds of billowing
spring
for your death remains unknown
to the waking sun and the April
rain.
Your quiet passing will go
unobserved
by the boisterous birds and bees
of May,
and so will wide-eyed infant
squirrels
clamber around through our
backyard tree.
June will not cease, nor will July,
blithely unaware you don't exist.
Ambered autumn bows to
winter's bride
as if nothing significant is amiss.
Oh, there will perish with your
passing
little of beauty that is not your
own,
only the grace of common
flowers,
only the lilt of morning's song.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem