Soft as a feather descending
My former advisor's death is learned
I retreating to a hundred versions of 'Stabat Mater'
While against memory of the news
Majestic strains and voices play
That hint of heaven's being,
Where a nose needs no tending
Meat loaf is never the order of the day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem