The mind has it’s own mysteries, and the savants know
That savantism and the mystic’s glow
May not be same but can be similar, so in their similitude,
That thoughts and thinking
Earth’s postulated shrinking
Are but the mind’s onward driver
But then onwards flows the river.
That fish can dive and plunge, and whilst
The oyster creates its own sweet pearl
Trees start up suddenly in spring
My mind, constant in it’s inconstancy,
Stumbles and runs in an outward whirl.
I am then and now, past, present and future
What I was, am and will be
The sum total of my story:
My thoughts have created me, with finality.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Argumentably, I can also become
A shadow of myself; I can thus become
A pale imitation of another, I can be, in sum,
Equally, and without the slightest difficulty
Myself and another me.
That is two halves of the same self
But wholly different in every way
On some days I am myself
On others, that self has left, bereft.
Where did that real self fly to?
Why this bitter despair?
What were the traces left behind by the tracks?
The fissures and cracks
Of footsteps on this strange path ordain?
That there was no eternity?
That this very existence was a fine exercise in futility?
Maybe, elusively, the truth written on the pinhead was
That I was just another mind, in perpetual quest
Egoistically, in pursuit of the unattainable, a wanderer,
Shivering under the hot sun, uncontrollably.
Of words, and selves, of wonder and pain
Of poetry, euphoria, realization, fever, laughter,
Reason, destiny, free-will and all the divinest things
Every portion that each day brings
Life’s sweet sad melody has broken again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.