Another rainy morning …
How blue this summer’s been …
Wondering if I’ll see another,
Wondering if I care.
This summer’s been so tragic
More bombs, more deaths, more war
I think the Earth is crying
She’s seen so much, so farl
Rain like tear drops fall.
In this year of still more tragedy,
My sixty-second summer
My feelings seem reflected
In this constant rain that falls …
Of course I know that’s silly,
The Earth is a place of woe,
From the fight of micro organisms
Throughout nature there’s just war.
I guess I’m just so sad
To think that maybe we can
Go outside of human nature
And be more than what we are.
Melancholy feelings …
A passing moment still…
Wondering when I’ll move on,
To a happier attitude.
Siddhartha Gautama, when he was born, was visited by a great seer who told his parents that he was destined to be a great king or a great mystic prophet. Of course his father wanted him to be a great king, like himself, so he secluded his son from the world and showed him only beauty, opulence and happiness, never allowing his son to leave the inner court of his palace.
One day though when he was of a certain age, and indeed already with a wife and son, he persuaded his father to let him ride through the village to see the kingdom, he would some day rule, outside the palace walls. His father agreed but also secretly decreed that no old, sick or poor people were to be on the main street when his son passed through on horse back.
One old man hid near the corner of the main street, because he wanted to see the young prince and the guards failed to see him. When Siddhartha passed he saw him and asked his friend: “What is that strange creature?” pointing out the old man.
His friend laughed and said: “That isn’t a strange creature, that’s only a very old man. We will all become like that, unless of course we die young.”
Siddhartha was confused, he’d never seen such a decrepit human being … and what did his friend mean, die.
“What is it to die?” asked Siddhartha. And his friend told him about death: “And you can die from accident, or sickness. Death is always with us!” his friend told him.
Siddhartha wanted to see the truth, so he pulled his horse out off the main street and went into the village. He saw poverty, misery, violence and he saw the very sick and very old and he saw those who had died being cremated.
Siddhartha’s heart was heavy. He who had everything knew that someday he, like everyone would lose everything. So during the night, he loved his wife for the last time, kissed his son and gave his favorite horse to his best friend, then leaving the palace, exchanged his rich clothing with the first poor man he saw on the street and went into the world to discover how to defeat death.