Don’t Let My Body Die in This Cold Ground
There is a river in the mountains I miss -
Oh, my lips blew kisses to you
on the valley wind
sweeping up between the hills
to a home in your breast.
In this nest I curl, as in mink fur
the soft ground
where the sheep rest
before their ascent:
This is the place I hear your song.
If I could, I would be the sarira
the holy man not burned in cremation.
My bones are old
they need your touch
to soothe the angry wind.
This land where the bell was rung
where war was ravaged,
is my temple once again.
Now it is autumn
there is not the singing
of one bird.
Lingua Sarira -- Michele Thomas