Survival he should know,
Requires not any other,
Water, food and sleep;
Then add a little colour.
But the one eye’d man
Lives with himself
And suffers more than
Those he shelves.
Nurturing his ego in
Suffering’s deep shade.
Confusing more the self with
A life that is self-made.
Self-illusion cannot be grasped.
Reach beyond, he was once told.
There within lies the divine.
The Bhudda way can he then hold.
By meditation he may learn;
But if he does, may find too late,
His life so quickly passed him by
And left him standing at the gate.
And when he finds his last day is
The same as was his very first.
But four hours and twenty.
He may well ask – did I achieve what I did thirst?
Tomorrow is another world.
Now it is his journey starts.
There is no purpose to his space.
Then live each day as if his last.
About rebirth he may well ask
And transmigration of the soul.
Illusions like a wave are cast
Up and down, as though whole.
No waves move, no soul incarnate.
Life’s Illusions will he recall.
Process passing, only karma.
Does he know life at all?