May my death bring forth the hymns of beauty,
be my sprinkled ash over fresh-scented soil,
feeding the worms and grubs and beetles,
igniting the force of the sacred willow.
Arms which linger and caress the earth,
so loving and serene is she,
whom stretches her bodice and frolics below,
singing tenderly with the wind.
My ashen blood doth flow through her,
pure grace and despair,
the branches frail and alive with dexterity,
and evergreen tresses,
to hide the woe.

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