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The Sage & His Rage

Updated on August 10, 2017
Dearest saint, tell me how? I wonder why? I wonder now.
Dearest saint, tell me how? I wonder why? I wonder now.

"Why such gloom and despair?" The wrinkled sage solemnly asked

Replied the fountain of youth, “Happiness to me is a marauding task”

Drag on a cigarette, tightly held a golden flask

The monk took a swig, then took off his wig

His eyes a burning yellow, his voice soft and mellow

The youth simply stared ahead, contemplated life at hand

Birth, arrival, purpose, bliss, antidepressants and bequeathed land

The monk finally spoke, ”Son, give it all away”

“Get a job, knowledge an acquired treasure”

"Time to stop mulling, time you stop to measure"

The youth still solemn, “How do we get pleasure?”

The monk blew a kiss, whispered in a hiss, “It is never enough”

The youth still seemed gruff, tired of sentiment, substance and stuff

The monk raised his palm, “I bless you beyond good or bad”

The youth lay quiet at night. "Am I truly happy or sad?”

Suddenly indifferent, the youth retired

Drafted a will, palms sweaty, his body felt wired

Took out his gun, pointed to his head

Nothing left to do, nothing left to be said

The next morning the monk finished his daily prayer

His beard a little grayer, as he twitched each braided layer

Beads hung around his wrist, went in search of the boy

Came across his door, heard the disciple snore

Pushed open the door, the lad startled awake

The monk returned his bullets. “These are not mine to take”

The youth sat bemused, the monk stood amused

The boy flung open each arm, clenched the sage's wrist

The boy still in awe, kissed the sage's fist

The sage smiled, tears in eyes, unable to resist

The youth offered him tea, the sage took a sip

The youth about to ask, the sage put a finger on his lip

“Look at this morning, so much beauty to adore”

“No need to question the purpose, no need to look for a cure”

The boy looked grave, a new resolve to be brave

Put away his gun, life stood to be won

The monk left the shelter, in search of a new "Helter Skeltor"

Quickened his pace, heard a blood curdling scream

Ran back to the shelter, the boy vanished from finite realm

The monk was aghast, maybe his disciple did not last

He looked around frantic, found the boy lying serene in a ditch

Checked his pulse, nothing left to stitch

Nothing left to heal

Nothing left to reveal

Nothing left to hide, no wishes left to abide

The boy did not last, without the friar by his side

Did the boy do this on purpose? Was it an accident of fate?

Was this love for life or restless hate?

The monk bemoaned time, always running late

That evening the monk returned, turned over a clean slate

The sage never prayed again to this date

Heaven or Hell? No point to delve.

The sage flung away his beads as the clock finally struck Twelve.

© 2017 Nikhil Chopra

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