When I die, plant my soul in a wheat grain
So I will grow into a stalk.
I don't want to be dead and dry
But serene and agile
For the wind to make harp music.
Then when the winter comes and the wheat is dead,
Snow carry the wheat stalk with you.
Do this to bring me rest.
Then in rest I will absorb into the mist
And move in snake like motions
While singing to myself.
This is a secret
But I know it is true.