By Prithij Singh
I have seen the will that was made fate
That not proles nor the kings nor the priests know.
Fools are they, trapped in their own state;
They thus blame one another for the maker’s plough.
Blind they are to the divinity of nature’s cleave,
Not knowing the freedom it has granted to man—
To not be trapped in the be, but to be the believe;
The essence of life is that very scar that has long ran.
The wise know to tell the hoed from the sawed,
The free know to tell the seed from the soil.
But the unwise know not the self that must be thawed,
The unfree know not chaos from turmoil.
In the foolery of the asleep, the false maker is purged,
Or praised, but the awoke know of the true maker
And embrace themselves and plunge into the cursed—
So it is true that the maker did in his image shape earth.
As is the ones chosen by the maker who rule and make,
While believers of false god blame him and in pain groan.
So be it chisel, be it saw, be it plough or even a rake,
By pain most intolerable and hardest to chisel stone.
The wise accept the divine gift and are free from shape,
Which was bestowed to them by will not their own.
The saplings then sprout and the best form take,
While the heathens blame their kin and moan.