In her mouth
she held the moon.
it shone there,
a small porcelain
marble set against
the black abyss;
delicate, beautiful,
a hard reality
having no
warmth save that
bequeathed
by a waning sun.
was she really
that good to
have died so young?
Robert S. Clarke
Copyright 1995
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem