I’ll bear with death as a going to ground
A bunkering-down, an embracing of loam,
My skull in the yew’s root. Weeds on my mound
Are heralds bringing a prodigal home.
I’ll rise as an umbel: white lacy flower
And tubular stem with tapering root,
And under my stone I’ll gratefully cower,
Nourish the seed and furnish the shoot.
My coming home will be met by a host
Who’ll rise from their graves on the night of my death.
Grass be my spirit, and nightshade my ghost,
And only the wind shall remember my breath.
But cut down these weeds and my seed cannot grow;
My coffined old soul will have nowhere to go.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem