When I'm gone, I won't be here anymore, if you can imagine that. I can.
I can imagine being gone, and then being somewhere else, somewhere
entirely different from this place, but with mist like at Dak To,
only with softer greens and blues, and no small arms fire chatter
in the untroubled trees, and no poison tipped bamboo sticks.

And when I'm gone, I would bequeath the space I had occupied
to the dreamers, and to the disenfranchised, and to the lost singers of songs,
so they might pitch their trash bag tents in peace
and ease back into the darkness that I love, when I'm gone.