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Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
The Hindus, like the other faithful fools,
Deny that death is death. It only seems.
It seems like deserts’ quavering, mirror pools.
Mirages, waver; that is, life lacks seams,
And just goes on to other life though where
That living happens no one knows. Some say,
Like Christians, that the soul glows on, a flare
That flares forever like a night-less day.
Nirvana is a nimble place. It spreads
Unendingly with spirits numb with bliss,
A contradiction (paradox in heads
Of monks and nuns) since life’s a bright abyss.
Religions do their best or maybe worst
To say, despite the facts, that we’re not cursed.
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