At which Marina has been laid
And nowhere is her name displayed,
Who went through darkness into light.
Perhaps a stone is barely fit
For one who scarcely lived at all,
Whose character evades recall
Because her death extinguished it.
Perhaps a stone would focus grief
For those who come to view the place
By giving a less vacant space
And thus accord them more relief.
But surely where her body lies
Heaven has pleasure to record
And at the coming of the Lord,
Transformed, Marina will arise.