The Thirst

Man writhes

In the tight blanket

Of domesticity.

 

The heart demands

An impetus.

 

The soul demands

A quest.

 

Not even a dog

Was made to be domesticated.

 

For domesticated things

Are dead things.

 

He who adopts

The ways of the world

Becomes a domesticated creature.

 

The world creates gadgets.

The creature attaches himself to them.

 

The world creates ideals.

The creature attempts to live up to them.

 

The world creates clubs.

The creature settles into them.

 

Such a creature

Is owned by the world.

 

Thus,

He is dead.

 

The open sea,

The light beyond the horizon,

The coldness of the northern winds,

The softness of faraway sands . . .

Will never be known to him.

 

Though his mind has been domesticated,

His heart remains free.

 

Though his mind has become conditioned,

His heart longs and cries.

 

There remains in even the most domesticated of creatures,

Something of the Divine.

 

There remains in even the most modern of creatures,

Something of the Old.

 

The thirst that arises from the heart

Is not for award,

But adventure.

 

For the Beyond,

The wilds,

And the uncharted.

 

Seas

That never return . . .

 

Skies

That never end . . .

 

Striving under the dome of society

Is but strife.

 

Plastic medals

And hollow applause . . .

 

The mind settles

For what the heart cannot.

 

The heart thirsts

For what the mind can never know.

 

Namaste.