Desert
There is activity and yet not action
Thought and yet no thinking
Attention and yet a lack of focus
Understanding and yet confusion
All emotions, all jealousy,
Is excused for spontaneity in behavior,
All lack of thought and consideration,
For compassion.
Though compassion alone, in such confusion
Retains sanity,
For there’s nothing better I can give myself,
At a time, where it is said that neither the giver
Nor the taker exists.
No principle nowhere, empty as a desert
Answers when sought, either not found
Or found in an order whose start, unknown
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Like looking at a mountain, when wanted to climb
Evinces its terrains, but conceals its base.
There’s hollowness, for spontaneity
Although a sign of connection,
Leaves one with being
Nothing more than the moment.
A sign of presence it is although,
What can one say about one’s past?
Fiction is it then, to the original mind?
Or am I just far, deceived by an old man
His words were sweet, simple,
And comforting,
Like the tea my mother makes, and
Never was I more happy to have tongue.
Though the desert he giveth, there is now
Holes in my teeth.
But a fun there is, taking what he serves
Shall I halt altogether, or savour the sweet
However much of my sleep it robs?
