You have lived a good life, died in your own home.
Your children have grey hair, have children of their own.
You have eaten fresh fruit, drunk clear water in your youth, watched 
roads rise from earth to sky and back, walked without fear on those roads.
They know your name here, they talk about you. Trees you planted
grow rich with fruit every year. The air you breathed out is what 
we breathe. And the ones still alive have inherited your loss.
They carry your grief, shimmering grey wound on their back
like a memorial sword. Children walk in your shadow 
spread across land where all soil smells of flesh gone before. 
Your tongue was sharp and your words drew blood.
You were kind and unkind, knew sorrow and love 
in unequal seasons.  Your wishes came true sometimes. 
Sometimes you were happy.

And this is what we write on sand under your name. 
Where the old river bends to listen because we who speak are yours.