It is not a pleasure to be burned.
Wherever I call home, do not cremate me;
Return me to the soil. Give me a plot,
A quarter of the world for me and mine.
There is an equal footing there, at least.
This commonwealth belongs to both the living
And the dead, and we outnumber them
(It is the Jeffersonian in me).
Remind the living of the man that was
On old, cold stone, half-weathered, lichen-loved.
Give me the sun and moon, the stars of heaven,
The smell of earth, the morning mist and dew.
I would become another institution;
Make me a citizen of the universe.
Give me deep roots, so I can pass the time
With those who take comfort in cemeteries.
If I am to return to ash, do not
Abandon me to wind or to the waves
Where I would have no rights, no memories,
Unmade in the turning of the tide of time.
I will forget, if I am forgotten.
To lose one’s self to fire and to water —
I think there’s something undemocratic about it.