Let the grass be green
Under which you lay
May the flowers of spring
Winter never claims

Can you hear the birds?
That sing upon your grave
Can you feel my steps?
Upon the rocks and clay

The roots are trees
Leaves upon your face
Your flesh sprouts
You lay in grace

Untouched by grief
Awake
Unspoiled by life
Awake

Your breaths get poor
Your eyes turn blurry
It is love you struggle for
Not exactly life

Common death
No cross
No rim of thorns
No deathbed made of gold or stone

Silent bells
No bitter chime
No light divine
Under this concrete sky

Small bed
Narrow halls
A hand to hold
A bit of warmth

Your last meal
Your mother's milk
A flowery path you walked
A starlit sky

Fragments of a life
Hanging from dusty walls
A portrait made clumsily by a child
Oil-painted poppies bought on a stroll so terribly long ago

Grasping for air
Striving to talk
Something odd
Are we alive when we die?

Death grows
Like erosion
Like dust
That accumulates

Death expands
Like a swarm
Passing fields
Leaving behind only stone

Hold me tight
Witness me
Like a mother stares at birth
Her newborn child

Would you sense my absence when I am gone?
Would I?
In retrospect
Would the world exist at all?

People around your corpse
Stand mute and tall
Motionless
In awe

An empty cup
A silent breeze
Retreat
Light supreme

Untouched by sorrow
Unspoiled by sin
Undazzled by glory
Undisturbed by routine

Light
Over horror
Over death
Over time