When I will be cremated—
And my bones will be ground
Into a paste, If not married:
People will come and surround
For my body is heavy to be carried;
My house will turn into a market,
A market of lies and grief,
And on the outskirts of my village
They will take me—to a place of great relief,
But I will be burned fast for spillage;
Though all my sorrows will end
And will end the long awaiting of a friend.