When first I drew a borrowed breath of air,
And squalling claimed my lease on mortal clay,
I knew it not—but Fate had scribbled there
A juicy clause to chart my pilgrim way.
Not crowns, nor gold, nor love’s entrapping snare,
Nor ancient scriptures of elders wise;
’Tis nectar pressed from orchards rich and rare
That marks the end for which my body strives.
Imbibe the guava’s blush, the mango’s fire,
The pineapple’s soft crown of sugared gold—
In these, true self attains its born desire,
As clear as eightfold teachings I’ve been told.
So drink, dear heart, and claim thy freedom near:
To sip the sun, and find nirvana here.