They gather together with their guns all aimed at me,
Seeking to **** me once & for who I could ever at all be.
Later they would think that I had not been so wrong,
But it is just their bullets that I've been craving for long.

I hope when I'm dead they bury me and not burn me,
I've heard and often wondered about the world beyond.
I want to reach in physical existence and not as vapor,
I want to preach in their tongue be it the Lingua Franca.

Ready for the ado they embalm me for the beginning,
Further on they enforce a smile on my face so worn out.
They lend me four shoulders and I do not find it strange,
Don't they lend two to the players who won on the range?

My mother will weep rivers - perhaps cry - no - not for me,
But for losing a child whom she had borne in to this world.
My father would weep too - but silently - probably for me,
He would lose a son and a friend - a student and a teacher.

My enemies'd feel relieved & happy - perhaps pompous,
But their souls would salute a person with a lot of respect.
My friends'd find themselves wondering & questioning,
All the why's, what's, who's, how's rising in their intellect.

Far away at a distance miles from my coffin she'd lament,
Her reddened eyes & tears would belie her sweet smile.
She will furthermore let the memories seep into her veins,
Her attempts to let go of the memories would only fail.

She might try to slice her wrist vein with the kitchen knife,
But I'll return & stand by her side holding her shoulder.
She will then accept this fact that I've died & ceased my life,
And I'll want her to live on with our child in her womb...