Dying is but going off-line:
all passwords forgotten,
Username permanently erased,
folders deleted
memory washed off,
Inbox closed forever,
not one more message to send, nor a mail to read.
Since access is denied,
you can never manage any chat,
your status updat simply goes flat.
Fancy blogging, posting tweet;
you had a large following, Sweet!
Now your blog slot is just a white, ominous space,
as no one punches the Keys any more.
You reach another kind of Silicon State,
a wondrous place, where you find
your lost account retrieved in a Data Template:
every visited site, every tiniest click,
browsing History, pages opened and closed,
favorite haunts, spam in the Box,
contact list, added or dropped—all
computed to a dot. You stand wondering
by your one-time Dustbin that pulsates,
and Stacks of hidden files lying inside out.
Wait, Just wait!
Before long, you'll get your Data Template.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
what a nice poem, and surprise I too write a poem just now on death.