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.