En helg borta

I helgen åker vi neråt landet. Redan ikväll.

Micke han ska jobba i Luleå och jag, jag ska åka vidare och ta farväl av min kusin en sista gång.

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circling flight.

I am the soft star-shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there; I did not die.

Mary Elizabeth Frye