To the One Walking Alone

If I die before the august cold,
Lay me there in aegus high
Where the youths and babes are buried
In the deep mist, where eyes have no use
Lay my face in the earth, 
From blinded vultures hungry for my soul
-Lay me in the familiar grave, deeper,
To reach needed warmth in that cold,
Hidden in the depth, the pulse of earth
-There upon the slippery highway, stairs, bury me
Where I shall dream of heaven or hell
But when the autumn air is here
Dig out my grave and lay me
-Up, up upon the cliff
Bare- for the breeze to wake, 
But if only tasting, and if I ever sleeping,
Tie my bones to roll in the ocean
In the belly of a storm, for a spark my body to stir,
Then, let the sun into where my eyes has lived
To melt, burn the coldness, stiffness that froze my heart
But if it fails, denying me its embrace
As the passing wind has, denying me its voice
Or as the river here echoing silence, still
-The fields there smothering scents,
That in my eyes-empty, its blossoms to blur and shrink
And if they failing, betraying me- like these here,
Rest then your tender hands my love,
For they have no way in the thicket of death
But on your hope, there is a ripple hidden within me
Made by the tears, sweats that flutters in my absence,
For they shall flow into my sleepy bloods
-And remain after the winter is done