The insects are humming a great natural mantra
which the cloistered monks try in vain to mimic.
Still, their resonant chanting can powder bones —
let’s not underestimate the amazing power of faith.
I’m hoping for a sky burial, where all that’s left
of this persona is a shimmering transparency of air.
I want to glide out on those insect songs, to be
annihilated in that incomprehensible music.
No one will mourn or envy me, no one will
have a thought — whether I have risen or fallen.
Perhaps it will be on a warm summer day,
and I will vanish, amazed, into the unknown.
You may look out your window on that morning,
delighting in the illusion that you are still alive.