About this blog

My only daughter's name is Clea. Clea was six years and nine months old and she was enjoying a family holiday in Samoa when the ocean surged as a wall, ten metres high, and drowned her. Many other people died that morning of 29 September 2009.
The other four members of her family survived the tsunami.
Life has never been the same since. It will never be the same. This blog features memories, reflections, poetry, etc...
Just let me stay with her under this moon,
hold her in my arms, spin her in the air,
with my dear daughter in some timeless swoon.

Tuesday, 23 October 2012

Blow, wind, blow: A sonnet

For Laura

Blow, wind, blow this piercing sorrow away,
Swell this lively windsock her forlorn friend
Made, her remembrance of much sweeter days,
When their playtime was not supposed to end.

Shine, oh sun, shine, dry all my loving tears,
Give blooms the life my darling was denied
On far-off shores; she’d lived only six years
And nine months, she was still a little child.

Their windsock soars today, it flaps and sighs
Proud yet feisty, suspended in the air,
Persuades me to pursue it with my eyes
Beyond space and light, an unknown place where

Happy giggles mark the passing of time
Pain fades to oblivion, grief has no rhyme.

(c) Jorge Salavert, 2012. 


  1. Thank you Jorge...Once again your words are so beautiful and touch our souls. There is not a week that goes by without Laura talking about Clea. She is in our conversations, our memories and our hearts forever. xoxo Nat

  2. Jorge aunque se que tú lo has traducido o lo traducirás mejor que yo te adjunto mi visión de tu texto en castellano.

    Para laura
    Soplad, vientos, soplad que el penetrante dolor vuele,
    Hincha este vivo globo su obliterado amigo
    Hecho, su recuerdo de días más dulces,
    Cuando no se suponía que su recreo tuviera fin.

    Brilla, oh sol, brilla, seca todas mis amorosas lágrimas,
    Haz florecer la vida que a mi cariño se le negó
    En muy lejanas playas; tan solo vivió seis años
    Y nueve meses, todavía era pequeña mi niña.

    Su cometa hoy surca, se agita y cruje
    Orgullosa y festiva, suspendida en el aire,
    Me persuade para que la siga con mis ojos
    Más allá de luz y espacio, hasta un lugar desconocido donde

    Felices risitas marcan el paso del tiempo
    La pena se funde en olvido, el dolor no tiene rima.

    Espero que te guste como propuesta.


    1. Thanks, Vicente. "her forlorn friend" is Laura, who made the windsock.


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