Destiny Dies But Once
Wise advise: live in now’s benign presence,
Scarce in unravelling life not yet made,
Nor in the past buried deep, dark and dense,
No sunshine falls on one dreaming in shed.
Take the fibre of life yet to unfold—
We dye it with rainbow colours our own,
Spin it, weave it with warps and woops unrolled
To reap for us fated fabric unknown.
Seeds sown in spring bear no fruits by next fall,
The light and dark shadows we gather here
Cast their imprint on life’s eternal wall,
The dead past often does reappear.
Man lives as if on New Year’s dying eve,
One eye on year to come, one on to leave.
The past may die, never its lasting charm,
Things die bequeathing their memories warm.
As Krishna’s Song would ne’er die on bookracks,
Nor Vedic chants stop reverberating,
Nor ever notes of Beethoven’s, of Bach’s,
Should faint to loosen their mystical ring.
So be the charm of unfolding morrow,
With seeds sown fruits are always awaited,
For taste remains, remains desire to grow,
Without desires the life is good as dead.
Ergo, life riseth time and time again,
The past liveth tell-tale marks for ever,
Man must savour or suffer fruits of pain;
Destiny dies but once journey’s when o’er.
Man ideally should live in the present moment,
but would continue still to dream that comes to
be from the world of his past. The life gets
born on the wings of this eternal dilemma.
The basis of rebirth is desire and the journey
of life ends only when all desires die. In a
way everyone’s ultimate destiny is the same.
The soul merges but once when it realises the
ultimate, and reaches the end of its long
journey. Yes, the destiny dies but once. These
concepts form the basis of this poem, which is
actually a combination of two sonnets.
The second one starts with the interlinking couplet.
- Sonnets | 08.10.08 |
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