The Way of Being
By nature, this person is a little solitary, Lost in poetry, finding joy in reverie.
Along the paths of duty, an employee in many a guise, Carrying burdens, heavy upon heavy, as the days go by.
The world seems to cherish the weight they bear, While the mind keeps seeking joy, and all that lies elsewhere.
Emptying the sack, little by little, Drifting away, bit by bit, From the very edge of life.
The reverberations, born in the brain, Travel inward, from mind to heart, And there, at last, find their release.
They bring one human being closer to another, And in me, my own immortal nature takes shape—
The flowering signature of creation.
In the end, without a thought For what pleased whom, The person remained just as they were, True to their own self.
Their own delight, Their own despondency— All of it woven together Into the fabric of their being.
And whatever remains beyond it all Is the mind's own hing ting chhot— That playful, inexplicable music Which belongs to no one but itself.
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