We emanate from the timeless One.
Some reflexively christen it the sun.
But their poetic imagination *****
in the wind, a useless appendage.

We are bound to blind matter,
an inane substrate of Being.
Planted in it, we rise as intellect and soul.
This triumvirate makes us whole.

We yearn to return to our Source,
seek union in inwardness and love.
A part fitting uneasily in the whole,
we contemplate our sorry cosmic role.

Still, mystic oneness drives us forward,
carried on wings of virtue in this life.
What comes next we cannot fathom.
The Origin beckons; we stand the strife.