The Self

All life long
we search for it.

During the day and
part-of the night,

we hunt for it.

We whistle for it
as if it were a dog;

scream at it as if
it were an errant child.

We ask the soul
"where is it?" as if

it could tell us.

The lost cannot find
the lost, the blind

can only imagine
the light, the deaf

cannot hear its
thunderous footsteps.