On Death’s road, <br />My mother met a great ice barrier; <br />She wished to speak, <br />It was too late, <br />A great ice barrier of cotton wool. <br />She looked at us, my brother and me, <br />And then she began to cry. <br />We told her—though a lie—that we both understood. <br />She smiled the sweet smile of a very young girl, <br />Which is what she truly was, <br />Such a lovely smile, almost roguish; <br />Then the Mist claimed her.<br /><br />Pete Crowther<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-death-s-road-trans-of-henri-michaux/
