Photo by Ethan Johnson on Unsplash

Due to the obstinate sun-set of natural tribulations,
An inactive spinal cord meows for a yogic cat-stretch, 
To amplify its stiffened and dull vertebrate rungs,
Stimulating the vital sense of life-flowing resurgence.

To expose illusory oscillations between success and failure,
For the hand that swings the pendulum from wrong to right, 
Stands still in the undifferentiated distinction of day and night,
A seeker’s refuge beyond even fright.

Yet we swing from pole to pole like restless primates,
Forfeiting the bliss of one’s unchanging innate,
In exchange for an ephemeral climax,
A wee drop of pleasure in an ever-changing sea.

When the swinging hand of delusion is observed,
Oscillations slow down to an eventual halt,
Each lit rung increases one’s plain sight,
Every facet of the quest is blessed and sanctified.

As snakes shed their skin from mouth to tail,
Humans recalibrate bodily tension through spiritual yawns,
And build a nice house from the enemy’s stones,
Living happily everafter in brilliance and splenduor.

Awake in the bosom peering down from above,
The sage balances chaos on her pinky finger,
Converts obstinate stones to sacred pillars of heaven,
For one man’s garbage is another ones treasure.

Ascended rungs of the vertebrate stretched flexibily. 
For in the hand that swings the pendulum she finds her destiny,
Bowing down to serve humanity like a coconut tree,
Walking the unseen tightrope between happy and unhappy.

Beyond ascension and descension, between relaxed and alert,
Where neither craving nor aversion rocks the cradle about,
For only stillness happens in that seeing place,
Between the storm and the calm, that unseen space,

Where in ultimate honesty — you can never — not be.

Thank you.

Kensu Fetsani.