The Path Within
I crossed a field of endless grass,
Seeking perfection in devotion at last.
I carried shattered mirrors in my hand,
Where eyes could no longer see themselves stand.
I scribbled ink upon a fragile page,
Inspired by beasts hidden in the reeds' cage.
Each appeared graceful, yet rotten inside,
Wearing sheep's wool while a wolf chose to hide.
There was a tiny firefly, no more than a spark,
Carrying its little lantern through the dark.
Hands on its hips, fierce and loud,
Spitting curses, speaking trash to the crowd.
I paid no mind and moved along my way,
Swinging these little feet another day.
There was a butterfly, splendid to behold,
With wings painted in colors bright and bold.
Yet it was a servant with a forgetful mind,
Once a caterpillar that left an itch behind.
I ignored it all, its fame a mirage to me,
A desert illusion where truth could not be.
I wandered through the silent shadows of a garden fair,
Where heavenly maidens aimed arrows through the air.
With graceful dances they tempted the heart,
Yet all were hallucinations, illusions playing their part.
This is a journey across my motherland,
Seeking a place where words still firmly stand.
Where letters cannot be purchased or bent,
Where beauty remains and envy is absent.
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Still I have not found what matches this soul,
Once it existed, now beyond my control.
Ah, perhaps not—perhaps it never was true,
Just tales spun by storytellers for me and you.
Just like the decay of the present age,
Another fable upon history's page.
Yet I found it dwelling deep within,
Depending on the measure of the soul therein.
To understand, to perceive, to see,
And offer at least a drop of morning dew freely.
How can we be wealthy if our hearts are poor?
How can we be great if our spirits endure no more?
How can we earn respect if we delight in blame?
This fleeting world is but a mirror of our name.
Where does a nation begin if not within one soul?
Where do millions arise if not from one small role?
We too have caused a mother's tears to fall.
Will we cleanse our hearts before the burial cloth calls?
