#existential poem

Cognitive Cosmos

When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain, Before high-piled books, in charactery, Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain; When I behold, upon the night’s starred face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair creature of an hour, That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power Of unreflecting love — then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

Staring up at the towers tall

Woke up this morning with a terrific urge to lie in bed all day and read. Fought against it for a minute. Then looked out the window at the rain. And gave over. Put myself entirely in the keep of this rainy morning. Would I live my life over again? Make the same unforgiveable mistakes? Yes, given half a chance. Yes.

Everything passes on and everything remains, But our lot is to pass on, To go on making paths, Paths across the sea. I never sought glory, Nor to leave my song In the memory of man; I love those subtle worlds, Weightless and graceful, As bubbles of soap. I like to watch as they paint themselves In sunlight and scarlet, floating Beneath the blue sky, trembling Suddenly then popping… I never sought glory. Traveler, your footprints Are the path and nothing more; Traveler, there is no path, The path is made by walking. By walking the path is made And when you look back You’ll see a road Never to be trodden again. Traveler, there is no path, Only trails across the sea… Some time past in that place Where today the forests are dressed in barbs A poet was heard to cry “Traveler, there is no path, The path is made by walking…” Beat by beat, verse by verse… The poet died far from home. He lies beneath the dust of a neighboring land. As he walked away he was seen to weep. “Traveler, there is no path, The path is made by walking…” Beat by beat, verse by verse… When the goldfinch cannot sing, When the poet is a pilgrim, When prayer will do us no good. “Traveler, there is no path, The path is made by walking…” Beat by beat, verse by verse.

A man said to the universe: "Sir, I exist!" "However," replied the universe, "The fact has not created in me A sense of obligation."

तुम्ही आम्ही फक्त बांडगुळ आहोत मातीचे…

Our Lives Are Not Precious