Plastic flowers strewn on lifeless graves, An artificiality of grief And memories enclosed within the tomb, Forgotten as the falling of a leaf
When spring arrives in her dress of green And song-filled breasts delight the fragrant air, Returning life and hope-filled days begun, Forgotten now the roots of our despair.
For we have lived and died a thousand times, Our bones in ancient cities turned to dust, A few remembered for the gifts they gave Most like outworn instruments to rust
Or fade as sunlight piercing through a glass Reduces all to drab or burns to ash The record of our few and paltry deeds And crumbs of joy suffered beneath the lash
Of time inexorably cruel and swift, To bear the burden of our unknown fate And hope mid the indifference of the stars For joy among the sinecures of hate.
And in the end we are alone with God Or disbelieving sole in darkness vast And by our loneliness and doubt possessed Face the riddle of our being's past.
Who can weigh sincerity of self Or plumb the depths of greatness in the heart, What measure to gauge the frailty of mind Or courage and will that sets a life apart?
Only those who see behind the form To view the bright lucidities of soul, Seers and sages free of the great wheel, Avatars whose godlike calm control
Can change the laws,reverse the course of life From dissolution and destruction's pace, Usher in the dawn of truth and light Implant within ourselves the future race.
Poems Undated (1727)
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