The man of ash says, take my urn
by my waist, that's right, like that
don't scatter me here on the prescribed
lawn, on last year's ashes. Scatter me
as a trail of crumbs where people hurry
and worry that this or that needs doing.
Lay my shrunken brain, my arthritic feet
under the rail of the fly-over
(a heap of no account, but still a heap)
so that as troubling dust I'll still
blow somewhere on speeding cars.
Still light. Still there.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem