Love this poem, especially that last line--what a raw and true sentiment.
You sleep, my darling;
you sleep in her arms, my youngest child
I do not see your eyes, heavy with night,
which shine like beads of real gold
or like ripe grapes.
A gust of fine wind half-opens our door,
puffs up your thin dress
and ruffles your hair,
then sweeps a paper from my table,
which I chase to the threshold.
I lift my head,
and there in my hand is the poem just begun:
your eyes blink in the sky
and I call the poem: STARS.