Humanity
You may find it empty mirth,
Or some meaningless chatter,
But for how so vague its worth,
I choose to write this letter.
Let me tell you, my old man,
What ‘tis that makes one human.
I scarce know if it’s better
To talk, or write a letter,
But as is self, puffed with pelf,
Rare, it listens to the Self.
To me it’s such a pity
That we humans should know not
What constitutes humanity!
Minus money, its colour,
Prestige or be it power,
Caste or community,
And whatso else and any,
Save, O man your dharma
And born of it your karma,
Then take what’s left as balance—
Which, still is quite so immense,
That is man’s humanity.
____________________________
Monologue |02.09.2021| Free verse
Poet’s note: The true self always tries to be in touch with the pretender self, call it one’s ego, but as it happens it hardly listens. And out of frustration it chooses to write a letter. Yes, it is only a monologue, for I think, no meaningful dialogue is possible with a pretender.
For Letter to your Future Self Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Silent One
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