Falling into a musical pattern, taking off with it's design as it builds itself into a rhyme of selection.
Grasping thoughts, a dozen at a time, filling the emptiness of my mind with prosaic blossoms, scented with bereavement.
Roses to be set upon a grave dug for a family member in her prime.
Scheduling an opportune time to respect and praise her life in moments of latent demise.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem