When I die
I ask that I be buried
so that I lie
in the heart of that dense black forest.
At the foot of those mist-shrouded mountains
Dig a deep deep hole
for my remains
and tell not a soul where my final home is.
And when the cold damp earth has covered those lips
that you used to kiss
level my grave
and let not a grim epitaph stain the earth.
The roots of ancient oak trees
will feast on my flesh
and I will disappear –
but when the north wind brings you an oak leaf,
hold it to your heart and kiss it
and I will feel your lips once more…