Our lives are like that of ,
the little four winged creatures,
born in a state of complete ignorance,
Slowly we grow like the wriggling forms,
Which know only to feed,
their voracious appetite.
Such are we strangled ,
in the net of desires,
our lives revolving only
around their fulfillment.
Need we be out of this adolescence,
and enter a stage of maturity,
when no longer we linger to fulfill;
The insect builds a cocoon around,
and draws within,
To metamorphose into freedom.
Out of the cocoon emerges a butterfly,
To sip the nectar of truth
in the garden of creation.
finding it as if by chance,
As the realization of truth is mostly sudden,
Needed only a devoted effort,
Till the breath remains...