It was not the end.
You live on in dreams,
and in the Earth, and in all those that depend
on the universe, and the poise and power and respect
of those who decided that this was not a man
that could be allowed to continue
on, without remand
in Tartarus, or Hell, or whatever you want to call it:
I cannot stand those who believe
that Death has no inclination to divide the world into two
based on how, and why, you deny that
this is something much more than just you, and me,
and those who have gone beyond us, who now wait for us
under the Tree.
I, too, have met Death along the road
of Destiny;
I, too, have found that They are still waiting for me
to learn the meaning of Life.
To listen to the burning shrubland,
and take up the dreaming might
of the oceans. After all,
they only part for you when the time seems absolutely right;
you know what only a heart-shaped herb can really, truly invite.
You know that if you were to fall—
no.
Just imagine instead
what Life itself would be like
if you were to stand, and to tell them all
I never yielded.
As you can see, I am not dead.
I will fight.
Even if you lower me into the grave,
I will get back up.
For Singapore, and for the world:
I will rise.
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