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When I die A map of the world will
Hang over my bed, The small library in Mijas
Where I read Lorca For the first time
will become a café, the olive trees
I can't live without Will be in full blossom
I will see death from a distance waiting for me
but I will not move— I will die on a train
where the view will be of white trees suspended
on gray clouds, I will die in the sky
where birds will carry a stream of light
on their wings, I will die in a car
where the windows will be a quilt of snow,
I will die moving.
As I wait, my lover will say you're beautiful.
He will mean, I miss the sea.
I will say, I don't know the word for life,
but know we must play so that it's not only about death.
He will ask, why do we grow stillness—
is it a noise we are close to, where the stones and flies and trees and birds
and echo and earth and what hides behind them insists on music?
A song will swipe by us.
I will look at him, he too will be waiting— but I am not certain for what exactly.
Then I will think, solitude knows it's where the empty space is,
and death knows it shouldn't count while it waits.