Each thought arrives in costume,
A preacher, a sinner, a sage,
Some plead for pleasure,
Some howl with rage.
A thousand selves parade through me,
Each claiming: “I am the real.”
But they vanish like smoke in sunlight,
Their voices too fleeting to feel.
The addict knocks with trembling hands,
The monk returns with grace,
The doubter questions everything,
The lover yearns for a face.
And I? I do not enter.
I do not leave the stage.
I watch them rise and flicker out,
Unmoved by joy or rage.
No name I wear fits truly,
No story can contain
This vast, ungrasped awareness
That sees both thrill and pain.
So let the urge be fire,
Let silence be the rain,
I am the sky that holds them both,
I need not fight or claim.
I am not the doing,
Nor the one who tries.
I am the stillness watching
The endless play of lies.