This poetry is not mine
but I sign my name to it.
What is my name
but a metaphor for the unnamable?
I don’t know who I am or even if I exist.
This is the poetry of my attributes,
my sanskaras - not me, not mine.
A procession of suns and moons –
rise and fall, rise and fall.
Breathes my chest –
rise and fall, rise and fall.
Torrents of thought rise and fall.
It began on a whim, said my Lord –
a bleary goal without need or desire;
a lack of requirement – unnecessary,
this plethora of suffering and failure.
O child of God, the whim of illusion
requires a life of whim.
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