More and more the mind
Seeks solace within the head.
It does not yearn to fly again,
With the flock of storks over foggy fields;
Or to hop with monsoon frogs,
From leaf to leaf, across lily ponds.
Quite mysteriously, it has silently succeeded
In forgetting all those pleasures.
Instead, it now remains obsessed
With a corner within the cranium,
Where it has housed itself
Crouched in that dungeon,
Chained down by time,
It sits and works,
Perhaps it is too scared to float out:
Some unknown fear engulfs it now,
And it seeks comfort in cages.
It now longs for the assurance
Of meaning, over existence,
For a certitude
In the social orderliness.
Alas, it has got diseased
With this perfect sanity,
And there is nothing I am able to do about it.