Crouching in a corner, with eyes shut tight,
To the vast mystery that surrounds it,
Is a man; human in form, animal in action,
Powerful of the intellect, mired in desire
Grabbing on material, finding a meaning,
Inventing an ego, giving himself an identity,
Searching for the love, which would quench
This thirst that tortures, this loneliness…
On impulse, the eyes open to the vastness,
Oh! The ego seems so tiny, the extant so limitless,
The marvels so numerous, the mystery so
profound. No limit to anything, far or close.
Embracing his loneliness, afraid no more,
The man sees the truth, bright and clear,
He is lonely, vulnerable, tiny and small,
But that is just providence, for he is the all.
His intellect calm, unfettered by the ego,
He plays on alone, in his infinite playpen.
Millions weep over something lost,
Millions laugh over something gained,
Millions cry hoarse over the warmth,
These evanescent emotions bring.
“Oh! This is what is beauty,
The essence of humanity,
These ardent emotions flowing,
From the very depths of our hearts”
And coldly the intellect sits atop,
Watching emotions reap the crop,
That it had so arduously sown,
Raped before it had fully grown.
And then emotions come back crying,
Trying to sow the crop again, trying
To regain something that was lost
In their seemingly righteous flight.
So many poems, so much literature,
About something that lasts a mayfly’s life,
But no one sings the cold truth left after -
The peaceful intellect seeing everything, smiling.
I do not know how to stir warm emotions,
I do not know how to sing about mirages,
But I do want to tell the truth, cold it may be,
And hope that one day, I hear what I say.
