Eyes closed, face wan, not sleeping, yet not awake
Trapped cruelly in her dying cocoon
Gasping pitifully for consciousness, life.
I know she senses me, smells me, longs to speak.
How could this happen to her?
She who was so alive, vibrant, in tune with life’s gifts.
There is no answer, death deceives us all.
For death is life’s reality, not the dream.
Eyelids trembling, I gaze down upon her
My arms filled with flowers
Her favourites: roses, yellow and pink
A festoon of colour, smell and life.
Blindly, I turn away: flowers need water.
Her studio beckons me
I enter anticipating botanical sights
This is not what I know.
Light streaming through the window from the West,
Yes, but not this!
Shelves displaying - row after row of
Rotting, withered, shrivelled
Garden plants: geraniums, azaleas, pansies, ……
I reach out to remove them, bin them, rubbish them.
“Leave them! ” A faint voice stops me in my tracks.
“They will grow again! ”
I did not understand then, but I do now.
And my heart weeps.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem