The Becoming

a poem

I could be there, I could be here,
I could be all that thrashes, I could be all that stills.
The malleability of my being
is the bestowed gift of time.

The Monk says:
Be of no form,
so you shall be of all forms.
Be water.

The ancient soul says:
Be still, tranquil,
like the steady winds of October.
Be the quiet woods,
and let calmness a your passion!

The Mamluk warrior says:
Be like the ocean waves on a stormy night,
be the gushing sands of the harsh desert.
Be chaos, so you shall be feared.

The noble scholar says:
Knowledge is like a vast iron waste.
Gather scraps from every corner,
and forge yourself a mighty armour
to protect yourself from the blows of blindness.

I could be nothing, I could be all.
I could be all, I could be nothing.

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