Sense

So many helpless, innocent thoughts—
whether they have a vessel or not.
In the ordinary days and nights
I have surrendered them,
offered them into the fire of desire.
Whatever was once feeling—
pain, fear, labor—
again and again they come to die
in this temple of the body.
Yet steadfast,
wherever the path allows,
they draw strength from the nest.
Restless, tireless,
they move back and forth,
gathering power—
only to grow weak again
through the misuse of the senses.
Perhaps one day,
more helpless still,
they will turn only to fate,
seeking feeling through sight alone.
No one will come
to take away our morality.
Before fate,
time alone must wait.
And with a deceitful smile
it will take away whatever is left of feeling:
the breadth of thought,
the hunger for love,
envy and hatred.
Only feeling is left behind.
The innocent thoughts return,
passing through nights of shadow—
where truth is summoned,
where thirst lives—
again and again they come to die
in the temple of the body.