Born again, new, seeking future.
Every day, every minute we nurture
an illusion of past, of identity
but every second we are new,
fragile without immunity.
Open your eyes, and seek contentment,
focus on here, and now without resentment,
focus on what you see, not what you remember,
I walk down an empty street, at night,
with a jacket in chilly November.
The leaves fall slowly down, and I see their life,
The tree sheds its body, its skin in a strife
to survive and go on, to perpetuate further
an illusion of past and future,
by destroying the present in murder.
Every seven years, new body, new soul,
the old permanently gone, but keeping my role.
I walk bound to the earth and all else,
I walk down the empty street, hoping,
throwing coins in wishing wells.
The air we breathe, constant, always here,
inhaled by emperors, saints, those with without fear.
The chilly breeze, the scorching desert air,
part of the whole, like my body,
from my spleen to my hair.
If ever should we see the truth, improbable,
enlightenment starts our journey to impossible.
Barefoot in the grass, naked in the universe,
shed your presumptions, today is a new day,
start a poem with a new verse.