I Want —

I want children to play upon my grave.

Fragile kites let out on lines held in sticky hands,

Pockets weighty with throwing pebbles;

Ant-army marches across greenest grasses,

Knees drawn high and feet bare

to the first timid days of summer.

Childish voices, noisy and forgetful

of the solemn nature of

life, six feet below the living.


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