得失荣辱，尽归尘土

My bones, scripted in light, upon cold soil, a human braille. My skull, scarred by a crown, 　emptied of history. Describe my soul as incense, votive, vanishing; your own 　the same. Grant me the carving of my name。 　　These relics, bless. Imagine you re-tie 　a broken string and on it thread a cross, 　　the symbol severed from me when I died。 　　The end of time – an unknown, unfelt loss – 　　unless the Resurrection of the Dead … 　　or I once dreamed of this, your future breath 　　in prayer for me, lost long, forever found; 　　or sensed you from the backstage of my death, 　　as kings glimpse shadows on a battleground。