CELLULAR:

When I finally die, I shall not be dead,

My rounded hip & my bent tilted head,

Shall then become the snail´s spiral shell,

And convert into water, within life´s well,

My raised grey brow & my stepping toe,

My bent arms, crooked legs, & all I know,

Will become whale´s breath & morning mist,

Becoming feathered plume & soft blown kiss,

My sight, gestures & my slight softened smile,

My nods & my winks, no longer linger a while,

They´ll be the dancing leaves & waves on seas,

And be plovers wings & falling fruit from trees,

And my shivering flesh, shall be merely in dreams,

Soft turning in the eddy, of cool spiraling streams,

In my voice, shall no longer be the moan of love,

But instead shall become, gentle cooing of dove,

Death is merely a recycled conversion of cells,

Bypassing man´s ideas, of his heavens & hells.