When the whole world comes to an end,
to me but not for you,
If there are certain ones who might still
be kind at heart, then do me a favor.
Bury me and do not burn my body.
Bury me deep and mark the spot.
Nine months of time – not more, not less.
Dig my grave to see my bones still intact.
Things had gone so deep till my bones,
when I breathed in and out.
And it is true that they hold memories
of everything you have been and
everything you have not been.
Enduring hard slashed silence for all these years,
if given voice, they would start speaking.
Underneath flesh and skin,
living altogether in darkness and blood,
they have born enough of the pain.
A relief of the sort I would like to gain,
useless to me but for them at least.
They hold my dreams and they shall forever.
Pick some if not the whole.
Throw some into the seas,
scatter some in the wild forests,
disperse some in the mountains ,
and the last few at a place of your choice.
Now that I have become the bones,
I shall no more be called the “body”,
but some heap of hard bones.
With your help, I shall live again,
through the seas tossing me hitherto,
between the mountains hearing their secrets,
with the forests humming their music to me,
and at the place you have chosen for me.
Promise me now that you shall help,
for I never wish to be known as just a fossil,
who never fulfilled bone deep dreams.
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