Death and Liberation

For liberation I have come,
in heroic pride, this far—
from the citadel of ego
to the frailty of age,
from the proud empire
to the dimming society.
 
For liberation I have labored,
for death I have spent
my hard-earned breath.
Meditation, knowledge,
the fragile order of self—
end and beginning race
toward one another
like twin flames.
 
Long I drowned
in the rituals of the household,
believing life must be fulfilled,
the race must be run swiftly.
My prayer has always been—
for liberation.
 
The swan of my mind
flies into forests,
dives in grandeur
into the swamp of civilization,
caught in the cage of knowledge,
beating its wings
until the last breath.
 
When my voice grew strong,
it was throttled by phlegm,
by bile, by decay.
To remember freedom then—
what but mockery?
Even the “conqueror of death”
fakes his path,
skilled in hypocrisy.
 
“For one who is born, death is certain;
for one who has died, rebirth is certain.
Therefore grieve not the inevitable.”
 
So says the verse.
 
Yet destiny bargains
with the southern sky,
where black clouds scream
like flutes of mourning.
A heartless soul has whispered: release.
 
Every day—
the same struggle
in the prison of truth.
Good times like mountain streams
turn to wounds,
cascades bruised
by stone upon stone.
The river’s surge
leaps from this bank to that,
and somewhere a watchman
counts no waves,
measures no wind.
 
Those who walked this far
on foot,
through obstacles and injuries,
through heritage and struggle,
flow still in unending currents.
Past and present mirror each other,
but not one wave
moves toward the future.
 
This is the glory of motion I built—
yet time and travel
are nothing.
They search only
for static reflections
inside the relativity of movement.
 
But the unmoving mind remains,
lodged within the cage of blood and flesh.
Thought, feeling, illusions—
they rush onward,
whether by instinct
or by the law of fishes.
 
The heart is an engine,
a mechanism of organization.
When it stops,
all thought halts,
and what remains is
a place without past or future.
 
Death is not the end.
It is pause—
a suspension,
a resting state.
 
One wave dissolves,
freed into the endless sea-sand,
while another rises,
opening its eyes
in a new mind.