This Beast

Lo, the bald giant mulling over unknowns and sat

On broken castings of regret; a figure of Buddha sitting

On secrets and the wisdom of time, and wondering

Why righteousness and sorrow create such thunder.

In a world of people who constantly blunder

About in darkness, in clearest light

From multitudes of robes assuming the right

To tell all that is revealed in an unveiled tone.

Grist for believers, marrow from the bone

Of some old human who set forth upright

On soft dirt, diseased and downright

Disgusting with smells and nakedness and fear.

It took millennias for this beast to hold dear

Another life, to value life enough

And get out of traumas, out of the rough

To make headway and fashion it progress

Or understand aftermaths, the essence

Of cruelty, persistence and unfolding wisdom

Which could steer the future away from the harm

Of indifference, apathy on show

Long dead the infant, born in the know.

Lo, the bald giant crossed legged and weary

Barometer of the heart, bane of detached theory

Shines brightly like the first evening’s star

Centred, yet always so far

For the link is eternal

Perpetuating the yearning, persistent and internal

For being there.