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XXXVI

In the end, won't death
be an endless kitchen?

What will your disintegrated bones do,
search once more for your form?

Will your destruction merge
with another voice and other light?

Will your worms become part
of dogs or of butterflies?


XXXVII

Will Czechoslovakians or turtles
be born from your ashes?

Will your mouth kiss carnations
with other, imminent lips?

But do you know from where death
comes, from above or from below?

From microbes or walls,
from wars or winter?


- Pablo Neruda
The Book of Questions