The Monk

Wandering alone, a monk, searching for a light yet to be discovered;
Stretching arms, demolished by blackened dark smoked nails
Attached like the poison of some old terrible sin,
Unknown, but to him reminding of some wasted hours
In smoke (the soul of the fire), the epic of the union of the devils
And that, he forgot to dig into his guilt
And blamed the world for defying his stand
When he forgot that god was not for him alone.
He’s a monk, as the wanderers doped by fumed illusions
Proclaim him. Satisfaction calls for his contentment
As he goes out in venture for that light,
The light which will be his attainment of nirvana,
And yet in him, he had already lost that light.
Wrapped in saffron dignity
And to some unknown infinity, afar from his reaches
He goes on in search for that prejudiced light.