and when the world
is too loud,
& its hands are clasped
over its ears,
I find myself here—
again, and again.
you,
my closest confidante,
my truest friend:
who listens like you?
what judgement
have you,
what scorn?
here,
in this quiet grove,
there is only
profession.
there is only
pouring.
life: it is suffering.
knowing this
does not help.
life. it is suffering.
this does not quell
my mother’s fears.
and we say,
“life. it is suffering,”
as if it is life who is selfish,
as if it is life
with greedy palms.
still.
life is suffering.
but we would not hurt
if we did not love.
no water flows
from hearts of ice.
I choose this river
of a thousand sorrows;
I choose this river
of a thousand and one
joys.
above all, I will love.
and for this reason,
life: it is suffering.