When I leave,
gather my dust
and scatter it
on the sooty wings
of a scrawny pigeon
that has pecked in
the city's ashcans and muck,
yet thinking itself a peregrine,
the fastest of all creatures,
has also glided
in the splendor of sun,
diving downward,
speck of shooting star.
I too shall fly
above the thunderheads
laughing in the ether
of the moon and sun
before
plummeting
peacefully again
at rest.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem