We look across the seasons of our years And muse upon the things we might have done, Our sweetest recollections end in tears As death awaits, the last oblivion.
We open wide the windows of our grief Yet shuttered in our memory remains The passing of souls as falls the blood-red leaf, Life tainted now by sorrow's purple stains.
The inertia of defeat drags us down. Caught between the future and the past The present is a cloud rudely blown By fate, and all life's treasures we've amassed
Seem but a tally summing up to nought. Unsteady our feet on an uncertain path, We must disavow the legacy of thought, Quell the pain, subdue the waves of wrath
That rise in us as uninvited guests, Our rage against the universal No, Open the silver casket in our breasts Through which the God may freely come and go.
The yogi in his aureate brightness knows Whither the sun, the why of moon and stars, The magnificent trajectory of souls, Upholds the world yet bears its wounds and scars.
Beyond the bourne of eye, the speed of light, Beyond the million avenues of space The destiny of man shines ever bright In the Image cast, recipient of grace.
Poems Undated (1727)
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