When I die,
lay me where I can
watch the stars,
where I can feel
the breeze brush my face.
Play my favorite song.
Tell me all
our conversations,
let me remember
the laughter and the light.
Then read a poem —
like this one,
or any verse
you think I’d cherish.
Bring me the brightest flowers,
so I may breathe in
their sweet perfume.
Tell me how
my simple existence
made the world gentler,
and tell me once more
why my presence
mattered at all.
Say how deeply you miss me —
and that you’ll never forget.
And then, when I live again…
Lay me beneath the ground,
cold and dim,
where the wind won’t dare
to linger,
the breeze even less.
Music will fall silent.
Say nothing but
grumbles and weary
whispers.
Tear apart
my final wishes.
Bring the flowers you know
will wilt too soon —
their scent,
no longer sweet,
will taste of grief.
My existence
won’t deserve
farewells or final words;
no condolences,
no hollow claims,
nothing left to be left.
Tell me that,
before long,
everyone will forget.
And that is why…
(Read the beginning again.)
— Echoes of the infinite