Through blue glass beams of light will pass
through broken bits of childhood's stained glass
through the blue of a coat of arms
through eternity, sick with her secrets,
you will know her healing blue light
as a ripple of cool breeze
the freshness of early violets
being sold already on wet streets
and your stitches will be of deep blue silk
sewn with an ever darkening thread –
and only a small blue bouquet will remain –
like snowflakes melting by the second.
Judita Vaiciunaite, "Blue glass".