Beneath the noise of marching feet
and banners stitched with borrowed pride,
there hums a deeper, older pulse—
a dream the waking mind denies.
Not one, but all have dreamt it once:
a crown of fire, a throne of bone,
the promise whispered into dust
that power makes the world our own.
Again it blooms in different names,
in gilded halls, in iron decree—
the same old script, the shifting mask,
a play performed unconsciously.
Kings rise speaking tongues of fate,
leaders crowned by fervent cries,
yet somewhere in the hidden root
the same blind hunger multiplies.
It feeds on fear, it feeds on lack,
on stories told of “us” and “them,”
until the many move as one
and never question who wrote them.
How softly sleeps the greater mind—
the shared, unspoken, ancient sea
where patterns coil like resting snakes
beneath the veil of history.
Empires fall like loosened sand,
yet nothing learned, just rearranged;
new flags are raised, old wounds renamed,
the surface altered, depths unchanged.
Coins still glimmer in the dark,
warm with the touch of countless hands
that traded time and breath and earth
for fleeting, fragile, shifting plans.
And war—
that oldest echo—still resounds,
a drumbeat buried in the chest,
convincing hearts it is alive
only when it conquers, never rests.
What strange design repeats this way,
this circling loss, this endless start?
A fracture buried in the whole,
a quiet absence in the heart.
For healing waits in silent rooms,
in soil untouched, in seeds unclaimed,
in moments no one stops to feel
because the dream has not been named.
The masses drift through borrowed days,
through rituals of empty need,
mistaking motion here for meaning,
confusing hunger there for greed.
And still the planet bears the cost—
each forest felled, each ocean torn,
as if the hand that shapes the world
has long forgotten why it’s born.
Perhaps the fault is not in kings,
nor solely in the crowd below,
but in the sleep that binds them both—
the ancient tide they do not know.
A mind that dreams itself as many,
divided, desperate, incomplete,
chasing shadows cast by shadows,
never turning, never meeting
the quiet truth beneath the noise:
that power cannot make us whole,
and wealth cannot restore the wound
that festers in the human soul.
Until that dreamer stirs at last,
and sees the pattern, breaks the thread,
the world will spin its weary tale—
the living walking as the dead.
Concept: Goma Thapaliya
Soul Knowledge 