Had you a dozen children, we both know

That not a one would but resemble you.

The essence of the woman I love so

Could not be conjured into someone new.

And if you were a genius of note

And penned your life for all to read and share,

The words, no matter with what skill you wrote,

Could not but hint at everything you were.

Your visage may outlive you even so,

Preserved as data, safe in cyberspace,

With all that made you wonderful to know,

Reduced to just the pattern of your face.