by rvijax
single
Universe is an endless dream theatre,
We do our little role and take it for the whole,
Nothing in these roles seem real or timeless.
For we know not, how the drama will take its course.
But sometimes, a part stands out significant,
Aspirations of a scene with yourself as the actor and author.
But what fun is a selfish scene like that,
It needs a soul. A soul that conceals
Mind’s Bliss and Wisdom as Heart’s Love and Passion.
It needs you. We make a sweet one act play of two.
(I wrote this poem, what now seems like, a very long time ago. I remembered this poem after coming across a similar one written some 5 centuries ago)
What Is Our Life – Sir Walter Raleigh (1552–1618)
WHAT is our life? The play of passion.
Our mirth? The music of division:
Our mothers’ wombs the tiring-houses be,
Where we are dressed for life’s short comedy.
The earth the stage; Heaven the spectator is,
Who sits and views whosoe’er doth act amiss.
The graves which hide us from the scorching sun
Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus playing post we to our latest rest,
And then we die in earnest, not in jest.
Vijay Rajakumar 