When I die

I'd hate to lie

in a cold deathgarden

bones to harden

in a stony tomb.

When I die

I'd like to lie

in that place

where ferns like lace

hide a jade snake's lair.

Where ancient pines

shelter the lines

of scarlet cherries.

Where pure magic flows

slaking the rows

of humble kitchen plants.

When I die I'd like to lie

in the warm windrace

in that place

 which is already Paradise.