We live even after death
We live even after death Although death is eternally true, The efforts to gain…..
Cherry is fugacious and wither; and spring is nothing
But achromatic moment in a cosmic dance; a living planet
Dancing around its star; and a blip in time’s eternity.
Man is bound by a life, fleeting and destined.
“That they are transient,
that they are contingent,
that they suffer.”
Ineffable it may seem, but a kerfuffle is what we have;
It is to sort out a meaning out of nothingness and nonsense;
Oeuvre and weighty tome of the human are transcendent;
And yet the flesh of dust is destined to die and reincarnate,
As a grain of hue in the wings of a butterfly, or in the
blossom of a momentary cherry; such is the opus!
Not to bemoan, but today is the beginning of a new year;
maidens in yellow raiment, and youths of awkward age;
and the singing and the dancing under the shade of an
age-old banyan – patinas of time engraved in the richness
of innards.
Innards are out and the arena empty; is it this tiny strand
of a deathly virus, or something more that gnaws at the
core?
(An empty celebration of Bengali New Year – on 04/14/2020)
Does it still rain in your world; does the bird sing; does the ocean still roars with wind; does man still makes love with his beloved; are you a cyborg; a mind-uploading interface with a machine;
does Moore’s law still applies or you are transcendent; have you conquered death and thus erased the philosophy of the living; have you travelled to the jeweled ceiling; past Cassiopeia; past Pleiades; into the galaxies at the edges of this unending universe; have you met the Star Maker?
Have you listened to the cosmos that is made of music alone; and it has no spatial dimension? If you do, please, send me a note…
Have you mastered the Dyson Sphere; do you still have your navel connected to this “mote of dust floating in a sunbeam” – this earth, a fleeting abode of a billion bipeds; precarious and in constant flux; glaciers melting, oceans rising, feet burning, apocalypse dark and forthcoming;
we the sapiens in a path towards a topsy-turvy cosmic collision; inevitable; and sure footed;
we cringe in deathly aghast; a total angst of existential disintegration.
My dear great, great grandchild, today is 20th day of the fourth months of the year 2020; for fifty years we celebrate this day in praise of mother earth; do we?
Do you still count your hours and days, the way we count? Have you known what we never knew; have you seen what we never saw?
Or maybe, you don’t exist; maybe we have, or our children have self-annihilated; and the earth rendered wasteland; blighted; and your very existence is killed before you are born.
No more I dream of butterflies or of peacock dancing; things that matter does not matter
anymore. A pervasive anxiety has set in. I have lost my sleep while airplanes crisscross the sky with plumes of toxic gas.
(April 20, 2020, 50th Anniversary of Earth Day)
We live even after death Although death is eternally true, The efforts to gain…..
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