Day before yesterday, at Mt. Yeongchuk crematorium,
I scattered my longtime dharma friend—a handful of ashes.
The sobs and sniffles of some crying man—I let fly.
The stone marker lying by the road—was it tossed?
It has some breath yet—see the liver spots blooming?
I watched for a long while, then came back down.
After I’m gone—whenever—what will remain?
A blind cuckoo, at least, crying in some forest?
I turn carefully, look back—only a fistful of ashes I’ve strewn.