I did not die.
I only became
a little dustier.

People think that if something burns —
it means the end.
But I say:
it means at last
I don’t have to explain myself anymore.

While I was alive —
they asked me for proof.
Now I am ash —
and they keep me
in a jar.

I don’t have to believe anymore.
Nor to know.
I just have to not cough
when someone talks nonsense.

I am the wit
of an older world.
That smile in the icon,
when you think it’s watching you —
but it hasn’t followed
any of this
for years.

My presence —
is like grandma’s sarcasm:
funny,
but a little shameful
that it hit you.

I am ash,
that does not return to fire,
but only
raises an eyebrow
when it sees you
doing the same thing again.