The Suffering Ancestor of a Happy Race

Is it not better
to fool your mind?
Tell it a story,
lull  it into asleep,
and then build a world.
A world mindless!
This world with
infinity condensed,
hope elevated
and impossibilities darkened
into possibilities, just like
the lush in this
courtyard does
after every rain.
The fragrance of which
makes the heart wander up and
down the roads of Joy!
Valleys are the floor
of the mountains,
they support it,
bear it,
and dear it!
The union of the indifferent in this blind attachment, unnamed,
is  what takes the mind
down the hills of Shimla,
on whose  peak I stand and
look down.
You see, it is not that
difficult to see.
It is not that difficult
to realize as it is to fool,
Fool a mind to the subtleness,
that  the suburbs,
well, believe ignorance born
more than the belief
itself.
It is not true!
The touch, which is
the incapability of eternity,
in spite of the constant promise,
this mountain makes to the
valley betwixt,
it must perish.
So is the brain’s
blindness blinded well
into  the bloom, the bliss of
boost, it had been
begging for!
Is this betrayal of reality
vulnerable in this yellow of autumn?
Is autumn the best chance to welcome winter,
the chill that frosts up
to nothingness?
Having all fouls
of tendencies come
uphill, the paradise.What remains then downhill?
Streets with denial?
Streams of distress?
Or mindful peace from
mere existence of
the unexisting?
Should then, this mindlessness end?
Should paradise be lost?
Would it make the hills more
mindful?
Would valleys get the strength?
Could there be a better escape to blindness?
Could the mindful mindlessness
bless the shades darker
than the drizzle
and lighter than the storm?
All ends in question!