who am I, if not this flesh, or it's desires
which come so effortless?
who watches the existance, made manifest?
It is not I, says the mind, whose
memories run mad from the pieces gone past
to the flirting projections of fantastic quests.
the silent indifference patiently waits
just knowing without thought, its love radiates.
come what may without preference
to be what is, is what I am
each experience revolves
camouflaged as reality