Being Free from Narcissus

That night, Narcissus left his last kiss on my forehead,
like Anna Sergeyevna kissed Bazarov.
Sensual pleasures are like a butcher’s knife and a chopping block.
I held my own vigil till my heart was buried deep in its own properties,
and was reborn without a face.

All conditioned things are impermanent while the law of conservation of energy exists.
My body will turn into soil: Nanda, see the body diseased, impure, rotten.
Then an earthworm will rise. If not its seedy cocoons,
 it will look like a self-born creature, as if matter were created out of nothing.

Spring skies drench the earth's furrows, my skin wrinkles autumn to autumn.
Furrows on my forehead. Furrows on my lips.
Absence of self creates a euphoria that follows the freedom from love.
Knowing that emptiness is touchable and is the cure for pain,
“I” exists as an X – but there’s no entity apart from its properties.

An object can be at rest even after it gains velocity.
The last flame of oil lamp can be brighter as the last drop of oil burnt.
Narcissus! You be the external force.

Italics are originally from Buddhist Confessional Poetry by Prof. Wimal Dissanayake

Subhadra Jayasundara


© JDS

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