A pain has got a point: it’s made to warn,
to tell us with a yell that something’s wrong,
as when we’re being burned, or pierced, or torn,
so we will flee from that before too long.
But what some pain is yelling isn’t clear
or else we may not know how it is ended,
the existential pain that’s most severe,
as of a wound no medicine has mended;
the painfulness that throbs in feeling cut
from everyone and everything – the sting
that’s of an open wound that doesn’t shut
while we are each a separate human being.
Throughout our lives, from solitude we’ve fled,
but nonetheless our loneliness has bled.
A cell within the body doesn’t feel
that it’s a single, separate entity
but serves the whole to help it live or heal.
It’s nothing by itself nor would we be.
Yet we are prone to feeling we’re apart,
each one a separate island, on our own,
instead of feeling, knowing, we’re a part
of something – Someone – larger, not alone.
We’ve been fooled for long by worldly spells.
May we recall we’re of one body – cells.
Mario A. Pita