The Sage

In the forest of penance,
immersed in meditation,
with the entire scripture of life within him—
sits an old ascetic.
 
Those who do not believe in reverence
look upon him as a fraud,
passing by with the eyes of mockery:
a naked man in the woods,
a hermit in a mountain cave,
madness, hypocrisy.
 
Yet he is a height unreachable,
from whom nothing may be gained—
and in this, our human failure
turns into a theater of deceit.
Who receives, and who must bear
the weight of faith?
 
In our unbelieving hearts
the darkness is fierce.
We take vegetarians as weak,
and bow, united,
to the carnivorous strong.
 
Now penance is gone.
The forest of austerity burns in lust.
Wherever the eyes turn
there are only dwellings,
cities,
relentless advertisement.
 
A home without walls,
a life without defense—
like an unguarded tree
its character lies bare,
bearing no weight of the world.
 
Sometimes, he removes his armor
and gathers close to the lap of nature.
The sage’s feelings—
with far-seeing eyes—
witness the world’s forgetfulness.
 
Before the edge of our brittle morals,
the sage’s mind remains beyond reach.
Until the body abandons illusion,
shunning its own shadow,
wandering back into the grove—
a naked body,
civilization stripped away,
with the entire scripture of life within him.
 
Read the world once,
just once—
and believe in reverence.