Who are those meditating
about the world as if their lives depended
on it?
Sad shaman prentices
on the sunny top of seven hills
raised upon circuits waste
and cards without electronic band
nor credit line.
They drink their wisdom as a liqueur
processed for the big
world markets.
They collect it in droves
from the sales bins
labeled by self-help books,
repeating the psalms
on the big marquee
of the net.
A chain leads to another
and the numbers add up,
perfect,
immutable,
everlasting.
From the large shelves
of the academy
they took the poker and the fire
and now they wave it
against everything that moves
beyond their mantras
and prayers.
Shall they know where they come from?
Shall they know where they go to?
But they know what the path is
and what is the password
to the harmony and the salvation.
They have sized the world
in a incense stick
and they have purified its essence into the sophisticated
flame of a lighter.
We, little poor mortals,
seek for a mere piece of soil,
some rock, a brief landscape
where stopping over in the night of the world,
if it possible sheltered
from the elements and
with the updated comfort.
Warming a heart is more than enough,
a body and a mere dream,
enough so that a slight smile
shines on the daily efforts
before closing our eyes
forever.
