You were a gypsy dancing on moonbeams,
smiling like a lantern
swung by a drunken sailor,
a ship storm-tossed and swaying,
a displaced stone from a creek bed.
I didn’t hear what the minister said;
didn’t seek reasons; there aren’t any.
I lowered my hand to let the sky back in
and pieces flow from my head.
Better to remember you
in a warm café sipping a latte,
than gone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem