From pyre to pyre
you lived to the edge
of death, and time burned.

I speak without
voice when nightingale
sings and become Miranda
at night.

I will cease to exist
for you in twilight and say good bye
to Venus, ready to fade
into oblivion.

In nothingness one
finds the reply of
echoes in valley of Buddhas
who lost their homes.

Go to the clouds
sweetly. Someone waits at
the red stone to blend
the flames with roses.