There shall be no black funeral for me,
No marker over my grave,
Where my dead bones stand, a great tree shall rise,
And cast cool shadows for those that dwell in darkness;
And my branches shall try to touch the heavens,
as did I,
Before I fell from grace.
When my arms emblazed in green are all lust,
are all they covet,
These little ones shall climb up my spiralling limbs,
To feel the fear of death forming in their hearts,
Or play the dream of being one with the bird,
Where I first felt life swirl in my blood,
In the canopy.
- RAISE YOUR SKINNY FISTS LIKE ANTENNAS TO HEAVEN -
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem