When I am dead my bed will be a cloud,
My tears will turn to raindrops, hair to grass.
My ashes will be soil blown by the loud
And careless wind that disturbs seas of glass.
The world will not care, like it does not now,
But then it never cared for anything.
Babes live, babes die, the wind blows anyhow,
Scattering selfish souls: just hear it sing!
The happy whistling housewife, as she scrubs
Her surfaces free of bacteria,
Is in her turn avenged by bugs and grubs
That greedily clean her interior.
We kill, they kill - hands up who does not kill
Without remorse? I’m waiting, waiting still …
Sat 25 Nov 2006
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