Quietly I have become.
Softly, I have vanished and inside
I am turning to dust.
Golden in the sunshine, and perhaps
one day someone will bury their hands,
and in drawing them out,
find that what once was dust is now
the stuff of stars, clinging to their fingertips,
and take it to the sky (nothing but a patch of land
among thousands, left behind).
Quietly I have become, silently
I have lost what I held, and
the mocking girl is just that, learning
to whistle tunes from the trees.
Carrying dust from the stars,
throwing it like lightning until the cracks
between heaven and earth tear the world asunder
to become ash drifting softly to rest,
on a small patch of land, in the sun.