There was a silence in his death,
A stillness strong, hard, oppressed;
An absence as there was no knowing;
A blankness left beyond all showing;
No wonder, we, the yet still living,
Invent our Gods as all forgiving;
For the greatest suffering,
Purely Hell,
Is not to be,
We live to tell.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem