Maybe the dead remember nothing of dying
But falling through a thick cloud of too-bright flowers,
Or raindrops, or down..or maybe have no thoughts at all.
Maybe it was a haze of images from the past
That they tripped lightly through,
Unconcerned if they caught every emotion by the hand,
Having known they had lived it all before; each hour,
Fleeting hours that seemed endless at the time.
I saw my cousins at their mother's funeral,
Their faces shell-shocked, drawn, disbelieving;
That she- of the always-strong shoulders
Always moving the world about herself, it seemed,
Instead of the other way around- could die.
I wanted to tell them, it will get better in time
(Though some days it will all be much worse,
And everything will remind you only of what you have lost)
I am sure there is some algorithm by which
The better it gets, the more painful
The interludes in-between seem to become,
And for whatever reasons, one seems to pay
Well in advance of the other.
And I don't know how much better
It becomes after that-
I doubt I have ever gotten past that part yet.
And I know that wherever she dwells now,
Must be a kind of heaven,
If heaven can exist at all.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Interesting considerations....interesting to read and think about