The hour when
the stars come out
on the pellucid firmament
without a word spoken
When
the ideas tumult on the perception
and the burden of years
weighs light on the conscience
When
the mind is still asleep
in the torpor of identities,
tired of the heedless minding
without a sweat breaking
When
the air breathes meditation
and sound is stillness itself
Into that hour pregnant with intrigue,
I once awoke,
feeling the possibility
only ignorance could compete
The hour was pure magic.
I could breathe insight
and emit sagacity
walk undeterred through any maze
every solution to every problem within my reach
Until I let myself indulge
in the dab of knowledge
the temptation to know the time:
It was five to six.
Then the reality dawned upon me crashing.
Then it was just another morning.
Mediocre.
Mundane.
Like every other.
Full of tropes and cliché -
the birds singing, the moon setting,
the sun delayed on the horizons greyish.
Rid of all magic.
Making me wonder-
if knowledge is truly the power
or
only the ignorance letting it so think?
I'd leave that to meander
in the folds of un-knowing
so long as I get to savour
the magic of ignorance.
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