You will leave this body one day —
not with thunder, not with omen or flame,
but in a precise, tender instant,
when the body completes its long prayer,
and the breath loosens its final knot,
and time gently releases your humanness.

The heart will soften its tight clasp,
the lungs will rest from their tides;
cells will bow from faithful service,
the scaffolding of form will dissolve,
matter remembering how to open,
returning its borrowed light.

And you will not go upward, but outward,
like mist discovering it was always sky;
you, slipping through the seam of the visible,
through the blue veil where edges end,
becoming light that answers only itself,
source-born, sovereign, whole.

You will enter the etheric ocean,
silver and shoreless, singing with stars;
time will shake off its straight spine,
names will fall like petals in water,
shape will grow transparent,
and your history will no longer be needed.

There will be no borders, only widening,
a cathedral of gold and indigo breath;
lifetimes will gather and recognise,
fragments will remember their kind,
every question will close into knowing,
every path returning to one pulse.

The body will give itself back to soil,
the skin to wind, the eyes to night —
but you will be the hush between heartbeats,
the warmth with no visible source,
the light inside atoms and oceans,
infinite, present, endlessly awake.