Sausages, bacon, apples, pizza bread
Food's somehow lost its taste, although I've fed.
What's missing from the small domestic list
Ah, how could I forget?
My son is dead
‘Good afternoon. The weather's lovely, yes
Not often you can wear a summer dress
And after all the rain we had last week, ' my neighbour said
I smile and nod, jump through the social hoops
Inside my heart's a hammer pounding chaff
My son is dead
Will I step out in brown shoes or in red?
I've ceased to care for ordinary things
Life is a treadmill now. All skies are lead
Behind the mask I howl
My son is dead
Well, well. Another earthquake in the Med
Bombs fall on Where-was-that? On Who-were-they?
The only banner headline in my head
Tops all, all always will.
My son is dead.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The death of a child is a terrible thing. I know. I lost a daughter to illness. This is so poignant. The world disappears from view. It will come back gradually, my love. Think of the many joys he must have brought you and one day you will be reunited.