Why should I fight against the will of the skies
Why should I hide from it
Try to slay it, with my imaginary sword?
Why should I even yearn for it?
Pray,
What shall be has already been set to be!
Yes, it is there, written on the palms of my hands
It is there, weaving itself like a crawling vine
In my heart's orchard
Weaving itself into a swing
To allow me to sit on it
And enjoy the bliss of it!
Pray, life is like a clock
Ticking itself slowly away
Eating up the seconds as steadily as it can
Going there where it is meant to
Even if it has done so a few thousand times
Going, even compulsively
As it has been programmed to do such!
And I, in this clock,
Remain the second hand
Acting even more compulsively than the two other hands
Acting even submissively
And dutifully!
Pray, the skies remain the clockmaker
Choosing to feed the battery of life
When they feel it be the right time for such
And choosing to let the clock die
If they deem it best!
Pray, why should I fight the will of the skies
So shall it be as it has always been meant to
As it is, in a reality where the game ends never when we wish it
Why should we fret over its fruits, over its pricks
Over its obligations, over its secrets?
Better it is to let the silence of the night be eaten up
By the melancholic tunes of the flute;
Eyes closed, hair loose, skin breathing,
Free and wild!
No comments:
Post a Comment