Poem: The Inheritance of Samsara (Awakening of the Warrior)

And the Seer asked,
“Why is the world this way?
Why are we born into hands that harden before they hold us?
Why do we inherit shame before we inherit love?
Why must we fight to be seen, to be soft, to be whole?”

And the Sage answered:

It did not begin with you.
It did not even begin with them.

Look higher.

Above the lineage of your ancestors,
there is a thread—black as tar, thick as oil,
dripping from a sky that once held only stars.
It is woven from the oldest hunger,
a force with no body, yet all bodies belong to it.

It was not born from nature, nor the gods,
but from the hands of men—
greed upon greed, grasp upon grasp,
the desire to own what was never theirs to take.

This is the creator of Samsara.
Not an all-seeing eye, not a vengeful god,
but a hunger that once whispered—
"More. More. More."
And men listened.
And men obeyed.
And what was once free was divided.
What was once shared was sold.
And what could not be owned—
time, the body, the breath, the soul—
was turned into something that could be bought.

And this was called progress.
And this was called civilization.
And those who could not keep up with the machine
were crushed beneath it.

This is the world you were born into.

A world where the thread tightens before you can walk,
presses shoulders down before they can rise,
teaches hands to clench before they can open.
Where to survive means to forget,
and to remember means to suffer.

And the Seer asked, “Then what of our ancestors?”
"Did they choose this? Did they become this?"

And the Sage answered:

Some resisted, but resistance has a cost.
Some knelt before the black thread
because to stand would mean to starve.
Some bowed their heads and called it faith.
Some broke before they could be broken.
And some—
some became the hands that shaped the world this way,
not because they were born cruel,
but because they were taught that cruelty was survival.

And so, when they struck,
when they silenced,
when they swallowed their sorrow
and spit it out as discipline,
know this—

It was never meant to be this way.
But how do you fight what you cannot see?
How do you unmake a cage
when you believe it is the sky?

Then the Warrior Spoke

"Enough."

The voice was not gentle like the Sage,
nor searching like the Seer.
It was sharp, alive, burning.

"Why do you speak as though this must be endured?"
"Why do you answer as though the only path is to understand?"
"Where is your anger, Sage? Where is your fight, Seer?"

The air cracked as they spoke,
and the black thread shuddered.

"You call this an inheritance? I call it a sickness."
"You say it is ancient? I say it is fragile."
"You say we must remember? I say we must also burn."

And the Seer and the Sage turned,
eyes wide, uncertain.

The Warrior stepped forward,
feet steady, spine unbowed.
Their eyes were alight—not with fire,
but with something deeper.

"Samsara is not a cycle—it is a noose."
"And nooses were made to be cut."

"You want to break the cycle? Then let the cycle end."

And the Seer, for the first time, did not ask.
And the Sage, for the first time, did not explain.

For something in them both had shifted.
For something in the sky had torn.

And the black thread?
It began to fray.

Who is the Warrior?

The Sage represents wisdom.
The Seer represents awakening.

The Warrior is not merely violent.
The Warrior is not merely angry.
The Warrior is the one who refuses.

They are the one who does not bow.
The one who sees Samsara and knows it must be unmade.
The one who is not content with remembering—but insists on destroying.