Anywhere on earth, in the hills or plains,
when the last one’s drawn, and no breath remains -
lay the withered grass down on any terrain
and there’s no need to disturb the gods.
Feel free not to chant prayers at the pyre -
and by the way, either would do, soil or fire -
home isn’t a point, a place to retire,
because home is, after all, a road.
And if you’re feeling brave, when I’m gone
let the birds have the flesh, the sun bleach the bones,
neither fire nor fuss, nor digging nor stone,
just a slow collapse into the clods.
Like a small footprint washed off by the sea,
a paper boat sunk after its short journey,
atoms imploding into eternity
without markers for where they implode.
Don’t disturb the gods, don’t disturb the soil,
don’t sully the air with heat and huge turmoil
don’t light up the lamp, don’t pour out the oil,
lose me gently to this bay that is broad.
Keep it light and soft, keep it natural
both the print and tread quiet, and erasable,
the end a laying down, no special disposal,
let me scatter where I fall with my load.