A ghost of Plato,
Lurches in the garden's dawn,
Crepuscular,
His vision forged in pain
Upon the bronze of Being.
His mantra is
The sound of Sound.
His rosary
Becomes the skein of Time.
Seeking an idealer Socrates
In vain,
He pauses
In the shadow
Of your mind,
Gazing through your soul,
And whispers this
Stentorian charm:
"It is within YOU
That I find my meaning.
Your weakness
Is my strength.
Surrender to my loom!
Become the fabric of this tapestry!"
And at that very moment
The Sea of Being
Boils and foams,
Bubbling up, behold!
Wild, tumultuous, terrible, raging,
Many elephants and unicorns and gnomes
Play out their evanescence,
Glittering in the momentary sun
And then fall back again
Into that Sea as One.
And you and Socrates are one,
Haunting empty tombs of the arisen.
- Sitaram (4-25-2003)
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