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I walk into my own self
And there are thorns underneath
And storms brewing overhead
And it's pitch black
All around.
Is there a sacred geography
Of the self beneath groaning flesh,
Tired bones, beyond the brackish
Slumber of blood drifting
Aimlessly...?
Are there temples here
And sacred rivers
And abodes of the gods
In mountain fastnesses where
The first songs of the early birds
Are still heard?
I walk into my own self
And there are temples and towns
And the teeming millions.
Is there no place for solitude
Anymore
For Modern Man,
The solitude of a mountain summit
Beneath the pindrop silence
Of the stars? |
