Scatter the ashes

I am unstoppable, in a burst

of light I am forced out

to be put in place.

The wind speaks its language,

old idioms never to touch,

but their contours dying not far away,

around a corner, up a hill, 

the AWOL-gone sky,

while the ancestors mutter

in different tongues.

Old border words trash

this corrie, the ashes in the valley.

Why should I descend

into its capillaries, 

explore boundaries?