There once was a man who’d lived many lives,
In forms that would baffle, in shapes that surprise.
He’d been rich, he’d been poor, he’d been king, he’d been slave,
He’d wandered through time, from the cradle to grave.
He’d walked every land, felt the cold and the heat,
He’d danced through the jungle and slept on the street.
He’d stood as a beggar, his hand to the sky,
And reigned from a throne where the stars whispered by.
He’d toiled in the soil with dirt on his face,
He’d mastered the pen, and invented new space.
He’d known every class, upper, middle, and low,
A chameleon spirit with endless to grow.
But through all of the lifetimes, one thing stayed the same.
He moved through the world with a heart full of flame.
A love for the people, the joy, and the strife,
He sought to improve every version of life.
He didn’t just watch, oh no, he became
The hearts that were broken, the ones without name.
He’d felt every hunger, each ache, every tear,
But lifted them gently, dissolved every fear.
He learned and he loved, and he carried it through,
Adapting to lifetimes that changed what he knew.
From palace to hut, from the plains to the sea,
He always gave back, he always set free.
But then came a moment, a deep, heavy sigh,
He grew tired of the charade, of the mask and the lie.
Of pretending that this, that these lives, that this game,
Was more than a dance through illusion’s bright flame.
He had tasted it all, felt the cosmos unfold,
Yet longed for a peace beyond silver and gold.
Even oneness, he thought, was a promise too thin
Was there meaning in circles that spun from within?
He stood at the edge, in a space undefined,
Lost in the riddle of matter and mind.
“What now?” he would ask, as the stars watched him weep,
“For what is the purpose when all is so deep?”
He longed for the void, for the quiet, the still,
Where nothingness whispers and bends to no will.
The vastness of no-thing, beyond even space,
Where the dance finally ends in its tender embrace.
Yet even in nothing, a voice soft and true
Whispered, “Perhaps, what you’re searching is you.”
You are the weaver, the dreamer, the thread,
The paths you have walked, they’ve never been dead.
All you have gathered, all you have learned,
Are pieces of fire that endlessly burned.
The meaning you seek is woven within,
In every life lived, in each breath you begin.”
And so he stood silent, lost in the gleam
Of lifetimes now woven, a never-ending dream.
Perhaps it was endless, perhaps it was strange,
But in this cosmic whirl, he too had to change.
So onward he wandered, no answers in hand,
But lighter somehow in this infinite land.
For maybe, just maybe, in all he had known,
The dance itself was his ultimate home.
