When I die,
burn me,
and collect my ashes
in a tin can,
inside an urn
shaped like a book
and let master Toño
be the one to make it.
Throw me in the dirtiest corner
of the Charco de San Ginés,
behind the skeleton of the rorqual,
in the middle of Las Cuatro Esquinas,
where filth accumulates
and stinks of death, where people,
when they pass by, wrinkle their noses
or put on their masks,
as if the stench of the sewer
could vanish
and not impregnate their nostrils
on the way back home.