It was her
last night
as her self.
Death had taken on
that burden
laid her gently to sleep
as if she were his child
or a broken doll
put back upon a shelf.
Somehow her reality
had escaped us
now only
a story
told for ever after
our crying trying
to touch again or be touched by
what we
remember most of her
her love
her laughter.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem