Statues of living, carved in stone, holding golden tears
of yesterday's love within a broken heart.
Tearing, rending a mind with the death of a beloved wife
one Sunday morning.
Reaching for her hand, he touches a rose bush of mourning
and tears start falling into ponds of their love.
Once, like long ago, their joy mixed and mingled with their
souls.
Sealed with kisses of mourning, embraced by death in fatal
attractions, causing rifts between lovers lives on earth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem