Loving voices die-
but first they dwindle
to a whisper;
The fragile throats
go closed,
in their final stricture.
No words to ease
the pain,
that's wrapped up
with a shiver-
And nothing else remain,
As beloved faces wither.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
You just tell it like it is. And as we live longer we are able to see more and more of 'The Big Picture' Thanks for putting it to paper........ Jim