In the Jungle of the World
and the Tangle of the Senses
we build us huts of mud and heartache
and make (and mend) our fragile fences.
‘This is me! That is mine!’
is the burden of our song.
We cannot see, still less define
that pain and sorrow prove us wrong.
This is not mine, this is not me,
is the beginning of our sanity.
Letting go of what does not concern us
leaves that alone which, meddled with, will burn us.
The Law is mirror-like in its precision
and its simplicity needs no revision;
that Good breeds Good
and Evil has its price;
that Virtue is its own reward.
And so is Vice.
That all things pass away,
from butterflies to stars,
and though the World’s a prison
it’s the Mind that makes the bars.