The Inuit whispered in
My dreams, secrets of
What a person is made of,
Young or old, male or female.
They have a soul, a name, and
A body, and only the body dies.
The name drifts among those gifted
With it, and a soul searches indefinitely
For its previous body, now deceased,
Although it is now its own owner.
They told me of an afterlife,
That I would always live,
One way or another, and
Reminded me that you
Can't kill a memory.