Delayed, till the rest of my life –
My goodness cannot wait
To be spent on the bliss
Of the slow pace of a simple life
Who knows this but
A surrendered face, trusting
The Universe with all that matters
In this imperial route of non-attachment
Like a Buddhist I will strive
To give without asking in return
I have no native town, no home-people
I am but a soul in a form on Earth
A Wonderful rotation of artistic seasons
My “last poems” ended where the silver perished
On my tongue that spoke less and less
The flute of an Autumn morning
It’s all I have to bring today
Delayed, till the rest of my life –
My heart beside the field of all hearts
I throw myself into the river
The river that forgets everything.
Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Long-Live-Independence-I-413323382
Wuji Seshat 
Lovely- such a sense of non-attachment
yes at times I remember to strive for that…
I very thoughtful write. >KB
Thanks KAB, it’s existential in a weird way…
Existential is weird in its own way anyhow. Go figure. >KB
Yep sure is, this Earth is a strange rock
I’m afraid when I was young I read too much into existential philosophy and it marked me haha
Mmm. It made me pause and think of some things in my own life in a new way. Many thanks for sharing it with us.
Thank you Dora, that is a profound compliment. Sometimes it feels that we all give in our own way, no matter how small.
I’m sure that everyone does, even if they don’t realise it. Even if others don’t realise they have been given to. This piece made me think about the similarity between the concepts of giving and letting go. Both require open hands and lessening of grip. I was also struck by the idea of having no home-town or home – being an inhabitant of something much wider. And in having little allegiance to a particular place (or having a focus on a particular person or family) as lonely as it might sometimes feel, it allows for a kind of allegiance to more people and places.If that makes sense? The hands are open for other encounters.
That’s what I was given by it, at least. Poems are like songs, in that way. They are written in one context but we can all take different things from them – it makes them organic, dynamic. Never quite finished, always evolving even though the words don’t change. I love that about them.
Apologies for the long comment! This one really engaged me.
That is just amazing as usual. Very powerful words. Wow.
I am quite awkwardly happy you think so Violet!