Burn me, then, when I am done
and scatter my ashes
on the shivering Tor.
Don’t bury my bones
in a dutiful hole.
Nothing of me will be left
at the end.
There was nothing much
at the start.
Nothing worth remembering.
What is there to remember, anyway?
The last stone at Cheops,
the first brick of your house.
Who made them?
Who laid them?
Who cares?
Don’t you see?
Bundy or Gandhi,
a millennium from now
they too will be
fully forgotten, like you,
and me.
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