Translated by: Elizabeta Bakovska
Let my departing be
In summer, on a sunny day, at noon,
with a pleasant breeze from the east.
From my bed directly to the other bed.
Before the autopsy deforms
my body prematurely.
Let the voice of the priest be heard from
let the mourning go to
the fellow dead who deserved them.
I’d even avoid the chapel – the
ritual circling around the bed,
setting flowers like a spring terrace,
condolences – teary or dry;
half-acquaintances, hugs, black robes… Noooo!
I want a happy funeral, a hippy good-bye.
Let somebody sing A whiter shade of pale,
a twenty-year old with an electric guitar,
A decent, sorted (not necessarily marble)
bar right from the hole – but only after
the shovel men gallop away.
No copied praises and a moron’s speech to
a microphone – with a broken speaker and squeaking.
And my old friends leaning on their elbows,
should get smashed and forget where they are;
so the farewell turns into a party, all the way till the end.
And those whose bladders have too much
could relieve themselves – here,
in the new unfinished toilet,
right next to the bar.