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That Life is Suffering
(The First Noble Truth of Buddhism)
On being born we start some fresh new death,
since torn from warmth of womb's more like dying.
'Out' smothers in openness and air's breath
swarms and lifts wail, firstborn form of crying.
Crawling into life, weeping own acclaim;
not now the little squirt of genetics!
So time fades first death, then immortal fame
we try; but scar the flesh, mar aesthetics.
Soon we wear greater death and go grand style-
what we create lasts longer than ourselves-
table stoutly stays, dead love's on file;
inmates strung or sprung, but jail seals bars, cells;
Being born begets our self-suffered ways:
wants, pains, panged Hell; a Hell that craves more days!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A very appropriate verse for First Noble Truth