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Reincarnation, or, Suppose

A 2015/7/10 undream poem by Chris Wayan

What if we do come back, each century?
Then which lobes of me are me?

Do I mistake mere family traits
For a spirit-hand in my leather glove?
One feeling lasts like bone; you know
What rhymes with the above.

But soul-recycling doesn't quite imply
(As Heaven's barkers scornfully insist)
That all material achievement's dry
Dust and hollow mist.

Can't take it with us? So what? Who needs?
We come back to our own deeds.

The Bard was wrong this time. The good we do,
Whether soul-prodded kindness, or through
A builder's pride, or simple sympathy of skin,
Oft outlives our shabby little sin.



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