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poem submitted to "Tribute-To A Poetry Soup Poet Who Has Passed" poetry contest,
Constance La France, sponsor, June 25, 2026
“Dead poets are never truly gone; they leave their breath inside our breath, their fire inside our souls. Every time we write, their unfinished lines rise to meet us.” Quote by the poetess I hold one of your poems in my hand, Panagiata, and feel the air still trembling with the force of your poetic voice. You wrote as if the page were a living thing~ as if truth itself leaned forward to be shaped by your hands. Your words carried heat, a fierce compassion that refused to dim, a verbacity that rose like flame yet warmed more than it burned. You saw light in me before I dared to name it, called me poet when I still whispered the word as if it belonged to someone else. Your praise steadied me. Your criticism sharpened me. Both felt like blessings from a woman who understood what it costs to speak one’s truth. The ground holds your body, but not your fire. That lives in every line you left behind, in every poet you touched, in the echo of courage you pressed into my hands. I bow my head not in sorrow alone but in gratitude~ for the way you taught me that a poem is not merely written but lives, and that a voice, once awakened, must not and shall not ever be silenced.
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