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Poem

In the thicket of spinning days, where fate weaves deep,
I seek freedom on paths of stars, my wave of hope.
Science tells me to believe in the dance of matter, in the sophism of time's flow,
That I am but a leaf in the wind, a bead in the long string of dominoes, falling at day's touch.
In the skeptical poem of existence, free will is but a crevice in thought,
Merely a statue in the marketplace of philosophy, awaiting the verdict of illusion.
&quot;A center of being,&quot; we say, &quot;a consciousness, a noble will,&quot;
But these are just echoes in a valley of causes and effects that precede and follow me.
I perennially toil with the infinite question of a chain that knows no end,
Cause after cause, a thread of Ariadne covered by silent sands.
We believe in the illusion of our will, when we are just echoes in the symphony of the cosmos,
Notes in a score written on celestial papyrus, unshaken, eternal.
I delve into the ascetic practice of meditation, seeking to break the unseen chains,
But even this is just a link in the great catena, an illusion of liberation.
Buddhism sings of detachment, of nirvana beyond the unnatural wheel,
But even the road to zen is paved with the inevitability of fate.
I wonder, is the light within me just a moon's reflection, or a glow of its own?
Is liberation a cosmic lottery, or can I stop the wheel in motion?
Chance, grandeur or divine grace, does it rule my flesh puppet?
Or can I, the poet of the spirit, carve in the heavens a different destiny?
With verses threaded, I live out the melancholy of this uncanny mystery,
And in each stanza I rewrite the unseen, ecstatic magic, in a sigh of will.
Fated to be a butterfly in rainbows or just dust upon a wing?
In life's storm I keep spinning, a soul like the aurora borealis in search of its freedom.

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