Michael
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousands winds that blow
I am the diamond glint on snow
I am the sunlight in ripened grain
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there, I did not die.
(Mary Frye)
... в момента в който чух това стихотворение,мислено го посветих на Michael...
Болката не отминава ... Липсваш ни все така СИЛНО !!!