Under the anaesthetics
there was nothing to know
for we are all ultimately unborn ;
in a dreamless, deep
unconscious sleep,
unaware of  embodied life,
on  a ghostly turning world –
its passing hours, the surgeon's knife.

the miracle of seeming to be here, is this –
our archetypes do not leave heaven,
enter not the stream of time
to cast their shadows through each birth,
or think the thoughts that make us all
those who must surely die.

roy austin
Retired Sage follower
roy austin

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