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There are some that have forsaken
Their beloved homes and some have
Abandoned citadels of faith,
All for an infatuation with philosophy!
And there are those that have been exiled
Some have drunk poison and some
Have resorted to wine, or even
Have embraced prostitutes for love!
“What sort of an attraction is this?”
I too follow the course to find the answer
But I’ve seen nothing but a veil of haze
Besides, I am shortsighted to start with
No one seems to have left any trails either
The few signs left behind, are unfit for use
I am convinced of the fact that
The path of philosophy has been
And shall always be like this –banished!
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In a way, poetry is similar, at least in part
And partly, it is not.
The poet walks like a king
Even with an empty wallet,
And still takes everyone along
Amidst trees in the thickest of jungles
And through the weekly village markets
Walks by himself, and yet not entirely alone!
He loves those majestic queens —
Divine and demonic beauties of yore
Native and foreign and even more
The philosopher, however, despite feeling
Intense pain of body and mind
Cannot let go and yield to the instincts.
Oh, what an everlasting addiction —
That illusion of the mind!
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