When I die, bury me in the valley.
Yes, chant a mantra for my body as it lays;
And then may they come from the sky,
Their black feathers like smoke over the clouds,
Vultures, ravens and crows for my cold, cold flesh.
Such poetry, this gory glory…
And weep at the beauty of it all I shall, I swear!
Because now, in spirit I can fly,
To my grave in the sky.
Such poetry, this holy glory,
For bless my soul,
Now birth as a bird,
Nests abreast the heavens.
Oh the serendipity of this serenity.
So divine it would be, as it should,