When the cans at my door stops to alert
They will tell me the last visitor is air
There will be no tears for “Yaanom”
They will need to replace their gone linguist
When the cans at my door stops to alert
I will be at the gathering of the emcumbered sleepers
There will be no time for my retrospect
So I will worry not before more but what I have built
When the cans at my door stops to alert
When the news of my journey is tempered with the hardened heart of a prodigal child
He will weep but say “weep not child for the great ones are not yet born”
Tell him “Cry him no rivers, save them for another day”
When my breath becomes static
Do not panic
Dont call for the herbs man or the medic
Gather around my bed in unity
Allow my body to stay but soul away
When the cans at my door stops to alert
Lay me in a bed of cotton
Sink me in the river
My ancestors will be there to accomodate me
