The hearse waits at the door
the dead is ready for the funeral's chore
dressed in this last hour
in wreaths of white flower
can't hold back the widow's moan
a journey that's now his own
can't see his son look grown in years
as he follows his father's hearse.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A very moving scene.... A compelling write, with such economy of words! A 10