Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

To be ascetic— oh, to simply be
and find austere not joy nor grief, not smile
nor tear, not triumph nor disparity—
pure life that affectations can’t defile:
I thought ascetic life was glory, while
quite frankly I had died. I simply died.
No thirst, no want, no weariness: no style
of inspiration, expiration cried,
“My God, my God!” And I was terrified:
my death came— and it hurt— and it oppressed
me— and I felt it— and it multiplied
with fright the words to be. And here possessed
with deadly fear was I alive with awe
that here was I my most— here razed, here raw.

hard work
(full of parámetros)
smile