Everyone carries a heavy bag
Whether it’s made of silk, or a dusty old rag
Led to believe there are valuables inside
By the silent voice of inner pride
That beckons to the door of an inexhaustible mine
At the entrance, a clearly marked sign
A cautionary one, easily missed
When it’s not on the checklist
The sign warns, avoid
The lust for gold, instead seek a void
Where there is neither a ripple, nor a storm
It is only there one can truly transform
Most are not ready
Taste of gold has made the mind heady
A metal forged in the yellow stars
Is much sought after, embellishing one’s memoirs
A poor man’s tale is a hard sell
No one like to dive in that well
Wealth doesn’t define one’s mettle
In steering this vessel
To the center of the ocean
Where the waves are golden
Reflecting a sun that never sets
Whose salubrious rays forever bless
Weighted by the anchor of desire’s golden strings
The vessel’s worn before the journey begins
Leaving one in the throes, of a dark adventure
Where long forgotten is the duty, to censure
The invisible ‘me’, who likes to indulge
In fool’s gold, which may easily engulf
The mind in a burning flame
In which is forged a unique name
It may be lettered in gold
And glittering, but the wise are not sold
Judging purity isn’t our job
That is the mentality of a mob
Restless and impatient
Becomes the norm, what’s sacred and ancient
Continues to remain still as a tombstone
Whether the seat is of wood or a golden throne
Without a ripple for company
One’s true worth comes into view suddenly
All sins are magically paroled
Without paying even an ounce of gold
The bag of desires must be left behind
Its contents make appearances that are ill timed
Only fool’s gold may be mined from that ore of misery
Draining one’s energies, leaving life dreary
Looking around, all one sees
Are weary travellers caressed by a joyful breeze
Which cannot waft inside
The mind of the dissatisfied
They build palaces made of gold
Very few reject that freehold
The cycle is destined to continue
Lost in the thirst for gold, many miss the preview
Of backs that become hunched with age
Refusing to cart the bag of desires off stage
Crooked fingers grasp at the strings
Desperately holding on, even as pain stings
Dragging the load with a will of steel
In the hopes of striking a fair deal
When the end is near
Pretending to be austere
Time cannot be fooled
By the old and crippled
It turns its back
On the gold from one’s sack
All one needs to do is let go
Of the strings tying us to the puppet show
Frowns will becomes smiles
The miles ahead will cease to be full of trials
Let gold live in peace with mud
Where it was put at the time of big bang’s flash flood
The wise have always parted ways with it
It’s fool’s gold for those blessed with their wit
- N. Seshadri
