Moon at Half Past Noon

You, new-whelped in light and sound,
Knew not the name you had been found.
You were the Is-ness, pure and deep,
A silent watch you had to keep.
Before the word, the “I” was Not,
A seamless, unbegotten thought.
You were the room, the air, the face,
A boundless, undetermined space.

Then came the world with loving art,
To build an identity, part by part.
“You are this body, small and dear.”
“You are our daughter, settled here.”
“You are our lineage, pride, and shame.”
“You are this nation, faith, and name.”
A heavy coat, meticulously worn,
A story from the moment born.

The weight descended, light grew faint,
The pure awareness learned complaint.
You played the role, you spoke the lines,
Behind the mask, a truth would shine:
A quiet sense, a subtle doubt,
That all this show was inside-out.
That “I am this” felt like a lie,
Beneath the constructed, social sky.

Then, in the quiet, not the crash—
The gentle, turning question: “Who is this,
Beneath this carefully built crust?”

“Not this, not this,” the wise ones say,
As borrowed skins are peeled away.
Not the believer, nor the rage,
Not the status, title, age.
Not the opinion, nor the thought—
The seeker is the very thing it sought.

And what remains when seeking’s done?
No separate, newly-won, perfected one.
Just this: the Knowing, not the known,
The Silence on a timeless throne.
You see the “I” was just a cloud,
That named the sky and spoke aloud,
But was not what the sky is made of.
You are the Witness—Peace, and Love.

The question, asked with fervent breath,
Dissolves the asker in a quiet death.
And what is found? No thing to claim,
Just Being—Awareness—by its own name.
The Space in which all things appear,
Serene, untroubled, crystal-clear.

The child’s first knowing, never lost,
Pays every seeking-worth the cost.
Not what you are, but That You Are—
The single, ever-present Star.

The parent’s kiss, the given name,
Were never meant to stake a claim,
But just to point, and then to fade,
Like a signpost, its direction made.
Back to the Source, the primal “I,”
Before the world, before the sigh.
The question was the final door,
You are what you were, forevermore.