Akala Poems

Not victory, nor slaughter
The house of pain, nor pains of laughter
Not bombs, nor the dust that was the village
Not mansion, nor mud-hut, palace or cardboard sheet
Not silk shawl or cotton canvas,
Not car, nor carriage
All is borne from no-thing
Therefore nothing is all that is real
The senses are but confusions illusion
A compass of false conclusion
Ears house some vibrations as cries or music
Yet others pass undetected
Eyes conclude colour, where some light is reflected
Yet most light passes the eye, undetected
Noses upturn at the stench of poverty
But delight in the rich stink of robbery
Hands hold solid, sure of shape
Yet that same collection of atoms
Is just empty space
Tongues taste terrible bitterness where sweet cures reside
And delight in deliciousness where pernicious poisons hide.
What is real?