What remains of you is flower-smoke,
A white dream of cold lava and sorrow.

Ashes of your days—
a sleep of birds
in the grey murmur of rain.

What remains is the weary strength of struggle,
Night’s sweat in the scent of the house,
The moan of lovers in love’s first bloom.

And what remains—
the dead script with which I devour you,
and the silence with which I adore you.