They’re throwing marigolds and rose petals
on the coffin containing my ashes.
They’re chanting my name, hip deep
in the holy waters of the Ganges and Yamuna.
These ashes, my own ashes,
in a vault, cold and gray, forgotten.

I walked the earth with these people once
and stood on the riverbank with them,
loved them, and died for them.

Holy men wrap themselves in saffron,
women rest on a sandbar,
in this country, where some now call me enemy.

Give me back my ashes!
Toss them to the wind,
let them sink below the surface of your memory
and become one with my soul
which runs down to the sea.

copyright 1997