Herakleitos, that contrarian Ionian of the Persian realm,
Sang that the world is a war, a fire of continuous opposition
In harmonious tension, bow and string.
I read him as though he were that poet from Bactra,
And it might seem alien to your sterile objectivity, that
The world is not composed of atoms and equations
but rather good and bad, twins
Not easy to name or distinguish,
Ever in opposition, one never far from the other,
Sharing so many masks: beauty, joy, suffering, grief, …
There not being one moment of indifference
Amid the flames, mind and body
Must ever be at war, swaying
In harmonic tension, waltzing
With Zarathuštra in a burning field,
No common road, no destination,
No map, no pilot,
No law, no momentum, …
Only choices,
Choices that bind.