This is the tale of pink palmed sage,
When I first met, he was a sod ugly fellow
Nose tilt with rage
Crooked teeth, all sinned with yellow.
Lived alone on the top of the books,
Hills, mountains, ranges of notions he had,
But all vanished within a minute,
Whenever his brows turned bad,
He used to live on top of them,
Singing alone jollily, and pouring whisky.
But broodingly he sat on them,
It was way too risky.
People asked for a share of his notions,
He turned away his head.
Some cried for share of his attention to the problems,
He always turned away his head.
“Pinkish palms deceive,
So does his words.
Flooded with foul,
And Mouthful of curse.
Stay away from that foul man,
He endeavors evil.
I even heard that he once,
Cheated coins with the devil.
Believe me, I saw him poking
Chips at the table with the man in red,
He conned the master of deception,
Without any dread.
But the man in red, was a master.
He kept seeing the sage,
A mocking laughing jester,
And marked his head with never ending rage.
Stories tell, he was stamped with hot iron,
Some say it was engraved on his forehead.
I believe it was fueled into his blood,
None matters, he has a lot of ire to shed.”
This is what I heard about the sage.
And then I finally met those pink palms.
It was summer, holy summer, bless the symbolic!
I met him at the tavern.
A true bloody alcoholic.
The Sage had a terrifying look,
Particularly similar to what we took.
But he was polite.
Gentle in a way we see the rivers fight.
Long brown hair pulled back,
And a shoulder covered with mantras.
No scrolls, or books hung to his back.
Just a rusty mind and fingers to crack.
He poured me several cups of rum,
Sooner as the night begun.
We stumbled together on the dirty road,
Off he yelled with joy and took off his load.
I walked with him in his stories,
Villages to villages,
Towns to towns,
Cities to cities.
Met eyes with people, he had met before.
Some with words against order,
Some with words against chaos,
But each of them pointed against him.
And the sage took none of them quietly,
Rather, he punched them to the ground.
And none of them were taken lightly.
So they rammed him in return, he suffered pound by pound.
And when the beating was over,
He ran over to the whores to cry the wrongs.
Heard them giggling behind the drapes.
Felt incapable of sitting through the night,
seemingly he was being hunt down.
Shadows in the corners of the brothel
Felt vulnerable in his night gown.
He remembers how he stepped onto
The walls of the dry well.
About to jump off into
The unsettling abyss.
“So, what did you do?” I asked him,
He said, “I breathe.”
And all the shadows die in my sleep.
All the whispers from the well settle down in my yawn.
“I once had a pile, a mountain of belief,
I once thought it to be hard earned knowledge.
All it was, and all it is
I breathe, and speak calmly.
The reality speaks back
And it was all new, for a man of babel.
I finally hear, what I lack.
Reality doesn’t care for all the beliefs,
A million mind, a million notions, all pointing against other.
I am no king, but a sage.
I don’t rule. I enrage…
People with their own ideas. Not my own.
Enlighten, with their own reflection.
Purify, with their own sweat.
Strengthen, with their own deviation.
I have been weak, and I have been strong.
Forever strong, that’s possibly very wrong.
I have sat on the mountains and have seen the depths of the valleys,
The weak will shore up, and the stronger remains to parry.”
I see the pink palmed sage, now.
And understand him clearly.
A path so not taken,
Something unique, dealt rarely.
I see him now, an old sod man.
Ugly as they say, inside and out.
Angry still, punches people as many as he can.
Gets punched, but now he smiles a lot.
He is a whoremonger,
Not a good man of any sort.
But a free man.
Not encaged by others and their beliefs.
Burnt his own mountains, ranges and cage.
Behold, the awful tale of the pink palmed sage.