Why am I in this human frame
That is at birth given a name?
Isn’t this name only a handle,
And this body but a “brief candle”?
If this body is my true abode,
Then why does it feel like a load
That I have to drag around,
And keep above the ground?
In poor health, we often feel
As if we’d made a bad deal.
If we’d known of the pain on earth,
Would we have agreed to our birth?
Even in good health, this form
Must to nature’s laws conform.
And this world, with its confines,
Many a great plan undermines.
Why do we dream about flying
When people around are dying?
Why dream about love, joy, and peace
When conflict never seems to cease?
Well, no one gets out alive
From this dark and smoke-filled dive.
And if there is a purpose here,
I hope it will soon be made clear.
Can we, in the end, redeem
Energy used on a vain scheme?
Does all our work turn to dust,
And all that we build become rust?
Behind all our daily plans,
There must be a purpose that stands.
And despite all of our detours,
There must be some work that endures.
So, while in this human frame,
It should be our constant aim
To act for the good of all,
And to get up when we fall.
Through death, we all go away,
But death conceals a doorway
That opens to welcome our soul,
As it unites in bliss with the Whole.