Prissy little beauty queens, they seem so self-assured:
They wear the latest fashions; in haught style immured.
Then there's exotic travel, to all the ports of call,
Always look so stunning, till exhausted, they fall.
They know that playing's bad; for time's what they don't have:
There's titles, trophies; there's money to be had.
But you should see the fetching way they look, before death-
They cry for their mommy, until their last breath.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
My philosopher, you! Lovely and sad, true, and it's your spirit behind it. Thank you. I love ghosts. Beautiful avatar. Is that form you? Lovely picture. And Ghost! {{Hugs}}