(picture from UN.org)
Now I shall lay this body down,
feeling streams rushing beneath thin winter skin,
my hair grown fine as spider webs,
my eyes, pale as spring skies.
No, not even mine anymore--
my breath flowing forever out at last,
both hurricane and lover’s sighs,
and when I pull the cover
of earth over my head,
I shall run through the heart of things,
and sing alike
with suns and endless void.