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
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
where my ashes rest if blessed or not by will for the gods maybe someone remembers flew here A Poet! Lindo demais Poeta! ! !