Stood I pensive; shifting from foot to foot,
disquietened in my mind, which silence
most often did most fitting find;
but now disturbed with abject looks,
at cabinets full of what had been forgot;
what they contained, I did again now know,
and did not make an entirely wholesome show.
What of regret? Is that any armour I can use,
and reap repentance from some weak excuse;
what can be said? I acted as I did and made my bed.
I stand here at the gate, the one that I had not seen,
since I was born, conceived, this mortal man that's me;
and now the meaning is so crystal clear,
of a sentence which I had held to me most dear;
'to thine own self be true',
then there will be nothing here to fear.
How strange, it surely comes to this;
my own Self always present here, and there,
in silence, conscious, true and full of bliss;
and all that ever happened, all that was said,
all that I had loved or hated or even feared,
only to lead me to this place I never left,
where I now meet Myself;
who never met with either birth nor death.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.