After the funeral
your fingerprint lives on
in a jar of Pond's Cold Cream
a shopping list
dug out of a drawer
now a precious artifact
I an emotional archaeologist
unearthing a smile
buried in the past
all our I wills
become the past
tense
the touch of your skin
still so real to me
a teardrop trickles into my ear
Death
unreals you then
makes you more real
I call your mobile
just to hear you say
you are not there
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
So intensively penned poem.Very fine