Tragic ink, it paints clouds without rain,
Beautiful pauses at the wind's gentle breath.
All craft converges to make Mona Lisa's eyes
Blink at your beauty, a fleeting, ethereal death.

Memory of time cannot bury your effulgent smile,
Which mocks mere talent, transcending art.
All that's left is feeling; I can paint nor claim
To sculpt conviction that does not breathe or start.

Your beauty and love
defy epitaphs frame.

By Makhosonke Dhlamini