Thursday, July 23, 2009
First & Third Noble Truths, in a nutshell.
The awesome rumble of a thunderstorm sneaking up behind the house, clouds swiftly shifting from docile and puffy-white to ominous, and gray
I sit in my room in wonder at the strange beauty of this place--
and yet so poignantly how I feel it is not my place
Another rumble, and I realize
in how many countless minds must that thought have crossed
this is not my place
-- 'tis a slaves cabin, after all;
and before my family moved in, home to a depressed man who liked to shoot at the trees from the back porch.
How many places are there, like this
whose fate it seems to be to shelter, protect, even nurture
an array of suffering foreigners?
And within these lovely walls, the walls that I love as my home,
how much of that suffering is mine, and how much of it simply the state that this place has known, indeed what it may offer?
The storm passes, the night is cool.