“Verily, verily, I say unto you, еxcept a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.”
Some call it separate self,
Some, “What the hell are you talking about, this is who I am!”
For those who feel that something is amiss
Who hear the prophets’ warning as their gist
They look for the culprit now and then
Catching glimpses of impermanence within
But with each glance it vanishes
Replaced by claims of vanquishes.
The game continues with now and then
Becoming more and less
With warnings becoming mindfulness
And vanishings becoming emptiness
Vanquishes, “The quiet space within.”
So, is death due for the prideful one
Or quiet fading like last night’s dreams?
Is there one which could die,
Or many which evaporate, as
With thanks to the sun,
Does the puddle in the afternoon.
For any who know, let them know.
For those who are wondering,
Best keep wandering,
Appreciating the game,
Of sacred to-and-fro.