I write, as if for the first time I learned to write.
There is heaviness
In the hand that carries the pen.
I start with the word DEATH
But I do not continue…
I just let my thoughts roam...
to the first time I saw Sunshine in the coffin...
and how her eyes are shut in eternity...
and how she must have hated to leave...but she had to...
to the time I heard the wails of a grieving aunt...
and how it sounded terribly sincere...
and how it won't bring back my uncle alive...just his memories perhaps...
to the time...the scented candles seem like a choir...
their burning flames swaying from side to side with the wind...
as a choir would, swaying to the rhythm of a farewell song...
to the second time I saw Sunshine in the coffin...
and how the stitches that accompany her face
ruined the look of serenity that should accompany death....
I could only tell stories of funerals I've been to, I realized.
Death, is only as real...
As what I see...and hear...and smell perhaps...
But not what I feel.
DEATH isn’t…not just yet.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Poem has that solomn feeling to it