Amidst, Cluster, Exile
A hill on the Moon—all noble and kind,
contributing with all humility, an influx of wisdom as alms.
Retreating from light, once the wisdom falls unto Earth.
Turning it’s back, almost knowingly, or on foreign aid of the sublime—
as the string is pulled, and night falls on the other side.
In there somewhere, a window kept the town from dark;
a rat in pursuit, under the imposition of an external power—
a year spent in chase, within closed doors, up a storey;
in a faux-race.
The orbit was lost as the showered wisdom reached Earthly hands—
estranged from the cause—circled within the elite, and monks at the top.
These men with all knowledge gained, outgrew religion,
and set up a material faith—embodying the serene—
in hills, in streams, where nature aligned with the sublime.
The window, and the projected-light made room for nightly strolls;
a soft murmur lingered the streets—a chant of disdain,
emerging gracefully amidst the public drone—
heard when attention was spared in-attention to the source,
of the light that bled from the first floor.
After a year and a-half, the landlord shut the window; the rat was gone.
A true monk would reside not in what prowess surrounds him in the hills,
or within monasterical veils;
but in slums, in the plains; in true exile—
induing wisdom obtained to the ones in need,
instead of chanting in choirs, every couple hours,
in service of the embodiment of wisdom, a sculpt of their creed.