Of imperfections
Of unsatisfying deeds
Of short lasting glories
Of feeble desires
Of umpteen worries
Of limited time and space
Of senseless races-
Are our lives' stories.

They will judge you
Nevertheless-
Though not praising you for all good deeds,
Not many taking notes
Of all omissions.

A little away
There is seated a sage
Forsaking the best of the world he could have had.
His eyes are lotus shaped,
Cryptic are his smiles.
One would wonder
If winter would touch his bare body
Whether the scornful conducts
Of the alms giver ever would hurt him!

What does more he know?
Does he observe anything
Beyond that time
We don't count?