Now that my body aches daily from my job in the warehouse, I have contemplated death and dying, suffering and despair. So I wrote a poem!
Song for the Sick
Men love life
Though all will die
So I love you,
Though you may leave.
Work, wealth, clothes, and home
Require daily effort
Work, wealth, clothes, and home
Are readily lost.
The body grows old
The body grows ill
The fair face of youth
Becomes masked in age
The innocent brow
Wrinkles in worry
The sharpest of eyes
Grows dull and squinted.
Those whom you trust
Sometimes betray you
Those whom you desire
Never give you enough
Write your heart out
Nobody will understand
Speak yourself hoarse
They will smile and look away.
Dream of new lovers
Hope for better jobs
Long for fresh friends
But don’t gain them!
Or they shall wilt like the rest
And then you can’t even dream.
Best friends grow distant
Favorite songs grow tedious
Those we love grow ill and die
As we ourselves will – in suffering.
Some pray to God for heaven
Some meditate alone for Nirvana
Some make peace with death and relax
This is not my wisdom.
I love you as something I don’t own
Kiss you as something I can’t hold
Adore you as something I can’t keep.
I commit myself to inconstance
And trust in uneven things
But true wisdom,
Is to love what I am, for I am always that
To enjoy what I do, for doing is life.
To treasure my centermost
And love best what is nearest and ever in me.
Creative flow is my life.
No comments:
Post a Comment