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  • poetry
  • english
  • spirituality
  • death
  • vanity
  • impermanence
Monday, 29th August 2011

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away".

Percy Bysshe Shelley
____ § ____

Self-conciet is in vain, for everything comes to dust in time. There's nothing permanent here. How much ever we may think of ourselves, we will die, and be forgotten in the five minutes following.

Nature, as though, lets you fool yourself into self-importance, watching you from a far with a mockful look. "How cute this foolishness."

In truth, everything is temporal. Nothing and no one has a real existence, say or stay here. Kings and kingdoms lay buried in ruin abandoned, unattended, unnoticed, while the living attention turns itself to the next gimmick, the next charade. Alexanders, Rockefellers, Hitlers, Mussolinis, Gandhis have been forgotten, then what to speak about you and me.

In the grand scheme of things, your life is a bubble. To put things in scale, if time were as big as the Earth, then your life is the size of a millionth of an atom, hundreds of billions of which fit into a grain of sand. That estimate, too, is off by infinity.

All that is dust shall come to dust. So much a hubris about nothing.