I want to be incinerated
And have my ashes
Taken to the countryside.
Don't waste them in desolate
Or barren lands,
Because I toiled in those,
While being alive.
I want my ashes to be taken
To a ploughed field
And have them scattered
On every furrow, one by one.
I want it to be a tilled field,
Where the peasant dreams
Of a future of spikes,
In each seed of wheat.
I want my ashes scattered
With neither ceremonies,
Nor tears, nor old women's wails.
Let it be a chapter, a song,
One of the many items of sowing.
I'll sprout to accomplish my destiny
In the fruition of tassels.
The baker, the good baker
Will change me into bread.
Because, all of us, not Christ alone,
May turn into: spikes, flour and bread.
My artist's goal will then be fulfilled,
When my very being is transmuted,
And food for the people, I shall become.
(Original name: Testamento. Edited in Anthology. 1985)
