In the Halls of Starless Whispers

 

Beneath the vaulted halls of night, where shadows dance in silent grace,

A symphony of sandalwood unfolds, a haunting perfume in this space.

Here, dreams lie fallow, whispers dim, on beds of longing, unmade still,

A tapestry of might-have-beens, where questions echo, cold and chill.

For who, in this vast, indifferent void, can answer cries that pierce the dark?

No deity descends with solace, no whispered truth to leave its mark.

The heavens, draped in velvet black, offer no solace, no reply, Just endless silence, echoing back,

"Why ask, if answers ever die?"

Perhaps the universe, a tapestry, woven with threads of chance and whim,

Offers no grand design, no purpose, just the dance of atoms, cold and grim.

Are we but specks upon its face, adrift in currents we can't control,

Doomed to ask and never know, whispers lost in an endless scroll?

Or maybe, in the depths of self, a flicker of defiance burns,

A spark that dares to question fate, a yearning for what life returns.

To find within the heart's own core, a strength that rises from the dust,

A refusal to succumb to silence, a voice that whispers, "We must!"

Though answers may forever hide, like stars behind a veil of night,

The act of asking, searching, striving, ignites a spark, a fragile light.

For in the depths of questioning, a truth may yet be found, unseen,

The courage to defy the void, the will to create, to make, to dream.

So let the echoes of our questions rise, though heavens hold no grand reply,

For in the act of asking, searching, we claim the power to defy.

And though the answers may be lost, in stardust swirling through the night,

The journey of the questioning soul itself becomes the guiding light.

Unlikely Buddha 2024