I sit all alone on a mound of stones,
Listening to the ramblings of my muse
Encouraging me to just stay seated
For moving right now is of no real use,
Since I live in a world so fickle and unstable;
An ocean— of great blessings, feelings, dreams and fortunes—
Confused, aimless, with no direction,
That becomes more dangerous as you move through it
In search of wonders that fit your name.
For long, for ages, I must keep sitting
Listening to my muse ramble on to me
About my future, about my cravings:
How they will all come to me where I sit;
How the rains of heaven, the sky’s fine grace,
Will wash down on me on some glorious day;
How my hopes and my wishes will come to
Be truly mine on these white stones where I sit.
I sit and sit, my soul gradually fading;
My energy bored and deserting me.
I sit and sit, continue sitting, and
My spirit starts slumbering gently away.
I sit, and sit, I am still sitting, and I
Become lost in a timeless world;
One so blank, so light and wavy, feeling
Like the familiar world of dreams.
Then I get all itchy, drowned in vibrations,
My eyes open to the world once more.

I’ve been shaken and awakened,
Carefully smoothened and made glittering.
I’ve been inspired and required
To stand up like a man for whom
God himself is out there patiently waiting.
I’ve been made beautiful and enlivening—
My skin a canvas for art so splendorous,
Magnificent like the arctic winds;
My bones, like the flutes of daring angels,
Singing melodies that arouse all the senses—
And found my name in places divine,
Just like my muse promised me.
I have been woven from different angles
Into beauties so rare they frighten stars;
Yet none of these has made any difference,
For I am still a tree that interests no man,
Unlike what my muse said to me.
My branches all intact and healthy;
Little children would not play with them.
My fruits as shiny as any flower,
Yet no one cares to taste how sweet.
Not even my muse is here to see
What I have achieved by simply sitting—
Sitting myself into glorious form.
Not even my muse is here to see me
Wonder quietly about all absence.
I am a blessed luminosity
Destined to die a curiosity;
I am a fortunately perfect piece,
An exhibition meant for no living soul;
I am to be a standing proof to men
That a soulless beauty does not enchant.

A soul is born from the interaction of humans breathing;
Not from a singular sage sitting on a magic mountain.


Photo by Jie on Unsplash