The Only Thing

 

To live, and simply live,

And maybe at the most

Say something worth hearing

About what it was like to be

In a particular place and body

At a particular time,

Which maybe, if you say it well,

Means something to other people,

In their own times and bodies,

And with their own petty concerns,

Who catch a glimpse of something immortal

Gleaming just out of view,

And always disappearing over the horizon,

Leaving the soul in material night,

With only the memory of the warm sun –

But memory is the same as light,

Because after all, there is only the mind,

Watching a shadow on the wall of a cave,

And finding joy in the dancing shadow

For as long as light and memory last.