Not Complaining

A thousand years from today, I think my having been here Will make a definite difference: a huge tree Roots itself in the soil enriched with my ashes, And it could be that when the wind whistles through Those branches, it will sound off like a cymbal, Caressing the bare bones of a symphony lamenting That I am no longer present here: Many springs from now Great tree roots in the ashes The wind sings through it Bare shoots of new birth appear Fresh melodies from my soul In the true scheme of things, time spent here Is but a drop, in the huge, cosmological bucket- The time spent elsewhere is immeasurable by any timescale. But to keep it in perspective, death is just a return To the pre-birth state, when you were just as dead; Still in the pre-existence phase of becoming alive, But didn't have the wherewithal to realize it. And it wasn't so bad, being dead then, was it? The only unreal part of existing, is the being alive part: When you think of how much time is spent being dead, Being still living, is a freakish conception, From that point of view. But I'm not complaining.