Shadows

Aren't we all just shadows?

In life's garden full of thorns and meadows,

Sometimes contours of all we are and all we want to become,

Like shadows, we all shift our shape,

Sometimes congealing into a curio appearing just like us

And sometimes like someone we want to be.

After all the efforts and pain of our youthful days,

In the retiring hour, we become an outline of our distant past.

Why aren’t we satisfied with our form?

Why do we hate our embodiment so much?

All the salvation that we strive for,

Wouldn’t it waste away in vain?

After all, we would again be in pain,

Forever and ever again.

I say the moonless evenings are delightful

Where the shadows don’t exist

Where we can just see ourselves,

“Our real selves”.