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.

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