SO(U)L

The Poet wandered long through storm and stress, over mountains, through desert wastes.

He plummeted into and plumbed the depths of the Abyss; climbed hand over hand to the precipice on the other side.

He queried and quipped with a dear friend while throwing stones into the pit; not just to watch them fall, but in the hope of filling it up so others might walk across.

Yet each individual's Abyss is their own and he could only tend to his, transforming it from a gaping hole into a rocky flower bed.

What would grow there, only time would tell, and it was not for him to decide.

Today the Poet sat on the edge of this future garden, watering it with tears of joy and sorrow, as poets are wont to do.

He wished his old friend, Buddha, were here to console him, but he was also thankful that the wise one moved on, for such rest was well-deserved, and the Poet knew that, somewhere, the venerable one sat in meditation, radiating peace to all who were willing to recieve it.

The Poet picked up a stray rock, and, to his surprise, he found a note written in a hand whose provenance he recognized.

He laughed, delighted and astonished at Buddha's prescience.

The note read:

Do not despair, dear Poet! Recall your own fateful line:

When we stray too deep into the dark night of the soul, we must become our own sun.