What is mine is not "me,"


 



The Essence Beyond the Claim

This frame I wear, an heir of dust,
A banquet shaped by time and trust.
The body, nourished by earth and grain,
A borrowed form, bound by chain.

This mind, a canvas, impressions cast,
Echoes of a past that will not last.
Thoughts like rivers, ever they flow,
Yet none define the self I know.

What is mine is not the "me,"
But shadows born of what I see.
Accumulations of time and space,
A fleeting mask, a transient face.

The body’s weight, the mind's refrain,
Are tools of life, not its domain.
For deep within, beyond the claim,
Burns a light no words can name.

I am not the food, nor the thought,
Not the battles the senses have fought.
I am the silence, vast and still,
The essence free of mind and will.

Discard the veil, release the bind,
The "mine" dissolves, the truth we find.
In the stillness where the self is free,
Resides the eternal, the true "me."

Beyond possession, beyond desire,
A spark untouched by worldly fire.
What is mine may fade, and cease to be,
But what I am is infinity.

 

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