When Death Is Upon Me Close

Death’s when upon me close, whispering cold Grey wisdom, but of too little avail, I know I’m death-less soul, no body frail, And death’s change of garment worn out and old, I too know, soul kills nor ever is killed To re-live old frustrations fanning fires, Woken up wants, wishes, dreams of desires, The soul’s here to till fated farming field. Yet, hard it is to rid my me and mine, To leave a field tilled and toiled to raise roots, Whatso scriptures might say, desiring fruits, Of no avail’s wisdom howso divine, To soothe my heart in its desperate wail, And wonder if divine courts grant a bail! ___________________________________________________ The spiritual wisdom that the body is no more than a garment, that the soul is immortal, that one should rid all me and mine, and do one’s duty without wanting fruits, is all right for the soul that has evolved well. But for most of us who know predominantly the lower self, the ego, death is still very frightening. We often read scriptures to an old man on a death bed. I wonder still such 11th day spirituality be of much help. The poor man is desperate to go or get a bail, as it were! ____________________________________________________ - Sonnets | 02.12.08 |