Diana is dead.
The frail, imperfect vessel
Of her endearing soul
Is laid to rest.

The people brought
Bouquets and gifts;
They threw them
As she passed.

And every poet
In the world
Is writing.

As she lived and died
We all reflect
On the aspects
Of our lives
Which give us
Cause to suffer,
Quietly.

We are given strength
To do good things
Despite,
And perhaps because,
We are imperfect.

 

September 6, 1997