At last, the culture smells matured enough.
Let us begin our dissection of Solitude!
But can we pry open its skin,
scale-like, hardened, withered by time,
with a scalpel, regardless of how sharp it is?
Let us assume that we can, and let us
do that with our unhurried, unshaken thoughts.
You might ask, “What if it dies?” Aye,
I would say, Death becomes us all, someday!
I am more worried though, when we look inside –
do we look at pure Solitude per se!
Is it Solitude like that of a hermit sage?
Or is it a mere exposition of a state
that might leave its startled soul blind in a seething rage?
* Thank You