How can I dull this mother’s Ache
Fist pressed against her heart
Clenched as if her Heart would break;
Frail wisdom to impart
Flesh of her flesh
Which had grown inside
After twenty years
Had prematurely
Died.
He at his very height;
She in her summer pride;
A child who had won his mother’s smile
With humor and clever guile;
Died with a needle
In his arm
On the floor
Of the bathroom tile.
He knew in the end
His flight from pain
Was a weakness he could
Not contain.
He tried to assuage
Her pictured grief,
Her futile rage;
This shame-filled
Thief.
Who stole her joy
Her certainty of
Belief;
He made an effort
To compensate
Her loss;
His impending FATE
He the tempest tossed.
Once their hearts beat together
There hearts formed a chord
That couldn’t be severed
Now she sits on the porch
His Death had bought her
Arguing with him
Against Self-slaughter.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
You always bring me into the words David, and I feel the poem.