When the time comes for the earth to swallow me

When the time comes for the earth to swallow me, do not cover me with just old garments, but lay upon me a quilt woven from poems, from the bleeding verses that flowed through my veins, stitched from the letters that were both witness and burden. Let not a single word remain. Let no one ever read them, let no one knock on my grave, asking, We found the one with the spoken name, but it wasn't him—where should we search now? Burn those pages to ashes. Scatter them in the wind of forgetfulness, just as the man who wrote them was never anything more than a shadow. For words are merely echoes of a dream that never caught the light, and I, the dreamer who wished to be, was nothing but an echo in the silent ocean of the unknown universe, a wave lost in the sea of forgotten time. Let only silence be my epitaph, for in its stillness I will live on, in the memory of those who heard, not just listened. And thus, I go to bury myself in the heavens, to be a cloud that rains memories, a dream wandering in the eternal sleep of a world without remembrance.