So bleak so empty is the beach to me
as I walk its lonely sand soughing length
in an aura of sunless disbelief,
for while yet you fought for life under theatre's
harsh light and knife in rubber gloved hand,
I was killing time.
At the tide's high line of fragile crust
I find a water smoothed stone and tomorrow
when you see me at the door I'll say,
'I gathered it while you were in theatre.'
In stead I waited 'till tomorrows ceased.
Now I return it to the deep.
So sterile seems salt sea and sand to me.
Barren wards and carbolic corridors
where trolleys trundle pulling green gowned
awkward-slippered surgeons and masked nurses,
while we in foetal sphere, about your bed
are saying our inadequate farewells.
We stand at the window of ICU
easing eyes tired from green line vigil
in luminous spike telling your life away,
each bleep of the monitor seers deep
until the straight line silence riveted
us into the future without you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem