Sarpir-maṇḍa

Some old dude sitting in a farmhouse

Writing rhythmical letters to friends,

As someone recently, jokingly

Described Horace, is not exactly

A recipe for delight. He’s right.

Especially not for the old dude,

If the old dude has no farmhouse, and

The old dude has no friends, just the yen

To write some more rhythmical letters

To no reader in particular,

No reader ever being likely.

Not everyone gets a Maecenas.

And yet, there is some tranquility,

To be found, regardless of device,

For a crumbling old dude before night.

Some. Don’t get yourself too excited.

The mystery isn’t peace of mind;

It’s the addiction to peace of mind.

One sip of simple tranquility,

And you’ll start wanting it all the time.

You can’t have it all the time. You can’t,

No matter how wise, not even if

Someone buys you a farmhouse and gifts

You with numerous devoted friends,

Pen pals whose sole intent when they write

Is to learn what’s on your mind tonight.

There’s no wisdom in tranquility.

Tranquility has made no one wise.

You write to churn your tranquility,

To clarify, give it some shelf life.