A dream of Atman

There is a road that far away,

stretches over hills till break of day

I follow this road, the path is steep,

my breath it quickens and my legs they creep,

pistons moving as the engine of my being,

my industry, moving onwards, seeing –

till at last some vision is lost,

faded tapestry in light fleeting,

aged eye like dim in feeling,

yet hopeful my spirit reaches out,

as one hand grasps another,

as Longfellow said,

‘a lost and shipwrecked brother’,

my damnation echoing theirs for sure,

yet it remains the same paradox of life

that a stranger does not have the face of a friend

when passing in the dead of night

amid owl howl and crow critter,

the moon like lavender as it drapes

over the sky as if lazily it could collect

the clouds of all its cares in a little glass jar,

and as if tucking them in,

dreaming of blossoms and sunshine,

they sleep as if in death, greedily,

lapping deep their mouths

 in the troff of that dream world,

 Atman, little dreamer,

wearing your majesty so lightly,

reach out and tap the nose of creation,

the womb of becoming

until at last you are born again

 in this world

with new flesh and new sinew,

muscle that fires

a mouth that consumes,

and play out the drama of your life –

laugh and love for you are never sure of anything but these,

you can put your faith in that