Siddhartha

The years ran by.

His senses had come alive;

they had learned a lot,

experienced a lot.

That high, clear alertness

that he had once experienced

in the prime of his youth

had gradually become memories,

had been ephemeral.

Slowly he was stricken

with the spiritual illness

of the rich.

Like a veil,

like a thin mist,

weariness descended on Siddhartha

in this senseless cycle.

Closing his eyes,

he leaned toward death.

The sacred “om” touched Siddhartha’s ears,

his slumbering spirit suddenly awoke.

He knew again

about all the godliness he had forgotten.

He had come to his senses by the river,

under a coconut tree.

Never had he heard the voice

and metaphor of flowing water

as strong and lovely as this one.

The new Siddhartha

felt a deep love for this streaming water,

resolved not to leave it again so soon.