When I die it will rain for seven days so even the heavens can mourn me.
God’s tears will wet my grave and all will know His sadness.
Droplets, warm and fat will glisten on leaves, drenching the trees in sorrow. The forests will weep.
Much of it will fall into the ocean; too many drops to cause a single splash, but enough to let the sea know tragedy, the waves will roll in despair.
A storm will brew, the sky angry at my death. The stars will hide behind the darkened clouds, shameful of their own tears. The wind will moan, keening its loss to the symphonies of nature.
My death will be a thing of poetry, tragic and too soon. A love story whispered in the wind, kissing the shore as it drifts.
My death will be worthy of Keats. Only when remembered words from long forgotten poetry speak will the world cease to cry.
Blow, west-wind, by the lonely mound,
And murmur, summer-streams–
There is no need of other sound
To soothe my lady’s dreams..
When I die, it will rain for seven days. The heavens will mourn me.