The body's Atman falls to sorrow.
Its path to the higher being is stalled by chance.
Its gleaming red jewel reverts to coal
And its beat sings an anguish filled aria.

Its head filled with thoughts of death,
Its hand holds a chalice filled with bane.
Day after day the body withers like flowers
That have endure countless, rainless summers.

It seeks salvation from its afflictions
And looks to faith for spiritual relief,
But the lone syllable gives no shelter
From the fear of self inflicted ill.

Years he spends in wonder,
In search of that he cannot answer.
On top the highest mountain he stands
Meditating on what the Thunder said.