By Amyura Santhosh
When I die, I wish to come back as a tree.
The warm, comforting sensation of my body,
as the blood of my midribs rushes down each leaf,
and my heart grows branches from its trunk.
My voice soothens into a soft whisper, gently made by the wind.
My eyes shut, and my ears enhance themselves as witnesses of the world around.
I gently blow a soft kiss on the ground as I lay my roots within the soil.
As the days grow old,
I will live, and I will die, just as everyone else.
Yet I will not be held accountable for witnessing all that I have seen,
all the winds that blew away my children from me.
I will lay gently amongst the others,
and soon my leaves turn brown,
just as my trunk grows old.
I will lay one with nature,
one where I’ve grown old.