A Festooning of Worms

Someday I will be honored food for worms;

in that extremity, I will not want
for company, for lacking wit to flaunt
or warmth to share, I fraternize with germs.
Still, lying there, on those unyielding terms,
I shall recall, while in that sacred haunt,
the song you sing my furtive art, to taunt
and draw it from the refuge it affirms.
So do not mourn me, when the moment comes,
and spare the soil your melancholy tears.
Fear not the bugles, or the muffled drums,
but let the perfect sunlight burn your ears,
for note—those worms shall listen close and say:
She still sings here; we dine another day.

- Jeopril Pableo