In memory she is wearing
a shroud of moonlight.
When mists come
the scent of her
is faint as fallen petals
of withering flowers.
Try as I might
to fill the moon’s crescent cup
with light
it is pouring memories
out over the sea
pouring her dust
into dark water
the orb withering
into a different dark circle
of wholeness
barely visible in earthlight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem