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