When it is my time,
please do not mourn me.
Take my photo by the bed—
put it away with all other
inconsequential things.
Do not visit places we used to go,
like that little bed and breakfast
with the cornflower teapots
on its bedroom walls.
Do not bring roses and sit talking
to cold stone while your fingers trace
my name upon the epitaph.
And last, please do not shake your fists
at the sun, screaming to the heavens
for what you feel you have lost.
Put me out of your mind; do not give
me another thought...
Like you do now.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem