Looking with dispassion,
with equanimity,
with detachment,
doesn’t it shine brighter than a thousand suns?
And in every minute particular?

The broken wing
the severed finger
the uncompleted life
‘the smyler with the knife’
the loss of all things dear
the smell of fear
spirochaetes, viruses and germs
and the ever-chewing sepulchral worms?

And don’t we see a thousand times and more
that what we build up and try to hold in place
disintegrates and vanishes without trace?
And what we hoard up
and try to store
provides a breeding ground for rats?

And this which is the Past
is also Evermore.

What we cannot preserve here
we save for heaven
taking our joys and pains
across the no-man’s land of death
when we feel the betrayal of the breath
And there,
in finer, subtler, intellectual realms,
plant our standards.

And still the Eternal, empty wind
will blow them down.


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