When you die,
The world doesn't stop
The bird who sang by your window
Does not sing a mournful tune
It's totally oblivious of its loss of audience
The ones you love may hold on
To your memory for a while but
Soon enough they'll have to put you
On a shelf to gather dust
Only to be polished on special occasions
The sun will continue
Spinning night into day
Immodest in the truth
that is, your inconsequence
in the vastness that's called earth