When You Scatter My Ashes Poem by Altair Laahad

When you scatter my ashes
to the four winds,
and I'm nowhere but in the dead air,
in a cold memory of overdone fire,
that once rose
and danced as in a satire
of illusive days,
though sweet and fair

remember, then, the little share
of breath that pumped my heart
with the blood that touched your art
and craft of a transient sojourner
who dwelled and blew
below the coming ashes holding
my mirth and my wrath;

remember then, the breath of the gods
that had long ago sealed in my heart
a cluster of pods,
they never gave nor blew to the fire,
they never scattered secrets in a quagmire
they enclosed it all in my flowing breath
that feeded the fire
and told my ashes the secrets of death