Each month consists of a million days.
Days that spin out endless hours and thus
Earth whirls around the sun; a mad cosmic dance
Repeated because it cannot fail.
Lives flicker and fade. Again and again.
What is life then? An essence of being?
A being of essence?
Why does pain thrust out its hand
And stand in our way; why does love
Beckon and then flee? Why do people go away?
Sometimes joy, like a mirage, promises wild things:
The end of a journey, but destiny's choice inflicts wounds
That bleed and bleed until death, like a friend,
Cuts into suffering and calls an end.
Surely there's more to it than this.
One being's individual life cannot really matter;
Though tears, like acid, can burn the soul
Until it is almost not quite entirely whole.
But to make the soul soar beyond suffering;
To remain impervious to trivial emotion
To remain suspended in exaltation day after day
To ask for nothing but to give everything away
Is perhaps the only surest way.
Put in perfect perspective...in such a big lonely world...with so many souls, so many unanswered questions. You've said what we all wonder. Beautifully done.
the language.., the inquiry about life...which everyone wonders and gives one's own interpretations... is beautifully depicted here. the second rhetorical stanza is impressive..it states our concious and sub concious mind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The shorest way goes back and forth as the questions do .. keep writing them One Peace at a Time xx