That day I sat at the window sill,
wondering at the relation between pleasure and pain.
O' how foolish I have been,
trying to grab something in this mysterious domain.
I have heard voices so divine,
they sooth your aching soul.
I have been the colors,
blooming on the canvas from the color bowl.
I have been the poems,
as they land from the unknown.
As the words intermingle,
to form a gracious dance.
The voice, the brush,
the pen from which the words pour.
Know nothing of pleasure and pain,
and do not ask for a thing more.
Pleasure and pain for them are but one.
To see them distinct,
they say is a foolish game.
As neither do they praise nor one blame.
Beauty is a curse,
for a good looking dame.
So it is with these two
pleasure and pain.
Pleasure and pain,
drive one another.
Without caring about disgrace and fame,
like the spinning wheel of time doesnt bother.
They are but two faces,
of one truth.
Which an ignorant mortal,
never could name!
