I will not be folded like a flag
I will be sluiced in the mouth
Of an inscrutable deity
My exploits unchronicled by ink
My effects unpreserved in quiet tombs
My heart, still bleeding, will not be
Immolated in ceremony
Nor will my effigy be carried
Through the cold climes of poverty
To serve as a warning
Against disloyalty.
I hope a wind takes my remains
And doesn't set them down
All these vain cells
These profitless sinews
Have helixes reaching back in time
Germs aching to be borne
On Zeus' thigh, in Clio's horn
To rejoice in becoming
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