I imagine my mind as an old temple,
with a tall gate left ajar.
It was so 'cause it wants to preserve
the stillness of the place,
and to welcome visitors at the same time.
If you would pass through that gate,
you would discover that the temple
got no ceiling at all.
There are tall, cold,
and smooth stone pillars though,
which seem to be supporting something above,
but you would not bother to look up
to see what they are.
Looking at your feet,
you would notice rough cemented ground,
which ran vastly along the whole temple.
It wants soles, but not their smell.
It keeps them safe, but leaves them callused.
You wouldn't dare to look at your sides,
'cause you would know there are walls,
but won't actually see them.
Just the vague shadows from your periphery
Beyond this, there is nothing more,
yet you wouldn't be led to think
that the temple is empty,
There is an air of fullness in it.
There is an air of desire for growth,
purity and beauty,
yet already blemished.
The farther you walk,
the deeper the air gets.
It could be stifling and suffocating,
and you might leave, running out the gate.
But if you'd sit in a while,
breathe a little and endure it,
it is likely that you would lock yourself in.