From the music summoned by my birth
I have arrived into this place
The worship of my dearest self
Not but a speck of laborious divinity
That would sprinkle meaning
In the tracks of humanity
And suffer a while with them
As one of them, with a voice
And humility born of years of poverty
And simplicity born of asceticism
And asceticism born of inner spirit
And there was nothing left to experience
Only to be, and that was a serenity
Of aging, where there was no proving
We are what we are and a passing identity
Like silver clouds with a speck of gold
The Gods knew our place in kingdoms
But we did not entertain the status
We were our own theory of originality.
kind of you to say Amita
Very nice! I do agree that as we become older, the need to prove oneself, fades away.
Yes that’s when we can truly blossom, outside the confines of self-judgement and censoring.
Wow. This is really good. Thanks so much for sharing!