Sister Delia

Here is your headstone

Delia, born Lucchesi.

You are not here,

Simply your memory

And earthen remains,

Feeding the grass...

Simply your shadow

Sealed in polished stone,

Your history etched

In simple words:

Born in Brazil,

Died after 35 years.

The rosary surrounds

Your name, the rest

Is simply a guess

To the curious man

Lovingly photographing

The relic of your riddle.

Were you a mother?

Whose wife? Who loved you

Cara Delia?

Did you ride there,

Or did it come to you in bed

Who cared then, Delia Lucchesi?

Somewhere, a family

I do not know

Keeps your picture

In a dusty album.

Perhaps, once in ten years

They point to your image

And say, ah,

That was Sister Delia,

Born Lucchesi,

There may be someone

At that kitchen table

Who can tell your story,

Someone very old who,

In cracked voice recalls your

Young, young life

And is waiting to meet you

On the other side

Delia, Nata Lucchesi,

To look into your liquid eyes

And caress your soft hair

Someone who will laugh

And take your proffered hand

And wander up a misty path

Where all is forgotten

Even graven names

Such as sweet Delia,

who was born Lucchesi

in Brazil, 1894.