Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you wake in the morning hush I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight. I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there. I did not die.
-At the Strike of Twelve by Choc
aitenshi16 · Thu Mar 08, 2007 @ 07:13am · 1 Comments |