Song of Self | Teen Ink

Song of Self

November 11, 2012
By asmonder SILVER, Suffern, New York
asmonder SILVER, Suffern, New York
6 articles 3 photos 3 comments

I say these words each day,
But how much do I mean them?
To look at something truly, and find its beauty,
This is an action which takes care and concentration,
Or do I mean, contemplation?
I gaze upon the world, with wonder,
but surely, I can be no more full of wonder than any other.
I see the obsolete carts dragged by sleek horses,
The ships so gallantly docked at port,
The solemn birds in migratory flight,
The treelike branches of flowing rivers.
I watch the church-goers humbly bow their heads,
The working men sweat under the sun,
The shocked faces of men when they discover
that money is not life.
I regard the proud men, elegantly dressed
for a ball perhaps, or a day at work,
I see the degrading looks cast upon beggars and bearded sidewalk-sleepers,
I notice the tired students as they amble reluctantly to class,
I admire the gaiety of the innocent babes,
I am stunned by the heights of monoliths built by men, the majesty of Nature's cliffs.
There is no monotony in the forests; there is no peace in the world of men.

My Self is without tangible form;
My Spirit is housed in a shell of flesh and bone.
Flesh and bone, they share the same dust that shapes the stars,
Are our bodies, then, not equal to the stars?
The physical body cannot think for itself,
It must connect with the Spirit in order to perceive.
A body is nothing without the Self,
The Self is incomplete without the body.

Late at night, perhaps, when one should be asleep,
Or, when gazing out a window at passing branches of red and orange leaves,
Maybe even while silently contemplating the movement of celestial objects on a clear night,
I wonder how the Self and the Soul connect.
A myriad of sentiments can be created out of nothing, if only given time to grow.

I believe in Angels, silent protectors,
Are they sent by God or do they come and go by their own accord?
The spirits that roam across the earth,
Are they restless?
Do they remain to haunt or heal?
Do they reflect our selves, like a lake reflects the sky?
I consider how I became;
What forces placed me here, made me who I am.
And after lengths of pond'ring, I am no closer to answers than before.
I occupy myself with thoughts of life after living,
Am I to believe that after death there is new life?
Some say otherwise, but I doubt their theories,
for after all, if some force shaped us and created us,
that same force must take us back when our times have been spent.

What are aspirations worth?
Why do I hope?
Why do I dream?
Why do I wonder, how do I conceive thoughts which are intangible;
thoughts which are metaphysical, that is, thoughts which have no form in the material world?
Where does yearning start, how do I strive to achieve?
It is one thing to ask why you are driven; it is another to ask what causes a man to be.
To ask why a child makes a wish is not the same as wondering what causes them to.
Perhaps it is what makes us human,
Maybe it is, simply put, beyond our understanding.

Rejoice, Mankind!
Rejoice, Spirit!
Rejoice, you birds of the air, you four-legged creatures of the forest;
Rejoice, the sun shines warm and bright;
the moon’s rays illuminate the night.
The winds carry fresh air from other climes,
the clouds so gloriously float on high.
The lowly ant, the silent trees,
the whispering animals of the forest listen to the breeze.
Creation’s power holds mighty meaning
for the one who looks for it, I say to you:
May you be imbued with the joy of learning,
May you embrace the will to reach new heights.
May you inspire as you are inspired;
May you seek to know as knowing seeks you.
May you live long, and well, and work with good intent,
Do these things, and you will be content.

The author's comments:
Inspired by Walt Whitman's Song of Self.

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