The child cries out for attention,
bound in a world of self and awe,
a need to touch and learn anew;
but watch the wise one, little friend,
who often speaks through silence
and hears what was never said.
The young man vainly struts his stuff,
bouncing from peer to fear and lost,
craving acceptance -- giving none;
yet watch the wise one, reckless lad,
who seeks no fine praise nor acclaim
and cares not ‘cept the Work is done.
The feckless maiden primps and preens,
forever changing clothes and mind,
sewing confusion – breaking hearts;
behold the wise one, simpering lass,
who draws no attention to self
and wears li’le but laughter and Light.
The mother laments her child’s dreams,
drawing them away from her home,
seeking other answers – doubting love;
finding the wise one, evernow,
who is but a mirror of truth
in which most will find only fear.
The aging crone regrets nothing,
each face line and scar a triumph,
defying the gods -- innocence;
sensing the wise one from afar,
spirits touching and caressing
for each remembers tomorrow.
The wise one hears between the notes,
each person a live melody,
ever rejoicing -- creation;
being what no one else can be,
doing what no other will choose,
and holds nothing – nothing at all.
The caring soul need not be wise,
nor brave nor strong nor profound,
gifting harmony – ever peace;
for the grand secret to wisdom
is already within your heart
and knowing who you really are.