historypoem
World History in Poems
A poetic journey of Hegelian Spirit
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A vessel adrift, with no direction, withdrawn
At life's cruel edge, where shadows loom,
A harrowing truth, a desolate gloom.
No longer master of the life within,
Subjectivity fades, an illusion so thin.
Uncontrollable forces, like tempests untamed,
Seethe and swirl, with no center, unnamed.
No rhythm, no purpose, they evolve and collide,
Leaving me adrift, in this tumultuous tide.
Oh, the anguish, the weight I bear,
As life's essence slips through fingers, threadbare.
The soul's yearnings, now lost in the abyss,
Bound by forces beyond my control, amiss.
In this dark dance, I'm but a mere pawn,
A vessel adrift, with no direction, withdrawn.
Where once there was purpose, now only despair,
A tragic tale unfolds, in this life's snare.
Oh, to reclaim the mastery, the sense of control,
To find solace amidst chaos, to make myself whole.
But here, at the edge, I'm left to bewail,
As the world spins on, and my spirit grows frail.
Subjectivity, a mere whisper, a mirage in the night,
Lost in the depths, where darkness takes flight.
Unseen, unheard, I wander alone,
In this anguished existence, my heart turns to stone.
At the edge of life, I surrender my plight,
To forces unseen, in this desolate fight.
No longer a master, but a vessel adrift,
In this haunting symphony, my spirit, it drifts.
I ask myself, with heavy heart's despair,
Why do some bear burdens, their souls laid bare?
From the ranks of normality, a select few,
Chosen for the torture rack, their anguish accrue.
Religions claim, in suffering we're tried,
That through agony, evil's purged, beliefs purified.
But such explanations, they fail to appease,
For suffering's arbitrary, unjust, it does not ease.
Innocence, it seems, invites the deepest pain,
The virtuous souls, the ones who must sustain.
No valid justification, no hierarchy exists,
Suffering's cruel realm, where hope oft desists.
No rhyme, no reason, its nature profound,
It ravages lives, without mercy, unbound.
A monopoly of anguish, its grip unrelenting,
Leaving scars deep within, eternally tormenting.
Why must we endure this unending plight,
In a world that's blind, to suffering's blight?
No answers remain, as we ponder and weep,
Suffering's veil remains, a secret it shall keep.
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Lament of the Sad Orc
In the cavernous abyss of silent space,
We orcs endure existence's relentless pace.
Born of a lineage that none desire,
Our reality is that of walking through fire.
From the cosmic womb, cast into disdain,
Our birthrights forever tied to an unending pain.
Children of a universe that seems to despise,
In our hearts, a ceaseless torment lies.
In the vast playground of stars and time,
Our presence seems nothing short of a crime.
Born as orcs, the untouchables, the scorned,
In this relentless cold, our souls have mourned.
The celestial spheres in their grand design,
Show no solace, no comfort divine.
In the merciless arena of love and desire,
We are but tinder, and the world, a pyre.
The feminine divine, the goddess so grand,
Turns from us, withholding her tender hand.
Thus, we're left, alone and forsaken,
Our hope, our joy, from us, taken.
No songs are sung for the orcish plight,
In the grand theatre of the cosmic night.
No constellations shine, no comets blaze,
For our wretched kind, there is no praise.
In the cosmic dance, we are the jester's jest,
Cursed to wear this hideous crest.
Our fate, it seems, is to wear the mask,
Of the universe's most unloved outcast.
Our hearts bear the scars of a timeless wound,
By the universe's cruel hand, we are marooned.
No cosmic mercy, no divine intervention,
Just the relentless echo of our isolation.
The universe unfolds, uncaring, unkind,
A testament to our despair, we find.
Yet, in our hearts, a truth we bear,
Life is suffering, a cosmic cross to wear.
So, we march on, under the weight of the stars,
Orcs, the forsaken, bearing unseen scars.
Bound by fate to a tragic role,
An eternal dirge in the cosmos' scroll.
In the grand orchestra of existence, we play,
The somber notes of an endless dirge's lay.
Each beat of our hearts, a mournful refrain,
Each breath we take, laced with silent pain.
Echoes of laughter, joy, and delight,
Are foreign sounds in our perpetual night.
We, the orcs, the unloved, the reviled,
Our lives, a sorrow-song, compiled.
The cosmic wheel turns, indifferent, cold,
Its celestial majesty, a sight to behold.
Yet, its beauty, its splendor, its radiant glow,
Only deepens the shadows of our woe.
In this cosmic theatre, we are but ghosts,
Unseen, unheard, scorned by all hosts.
Our pleas for mercy, our cries of despair,
Lost in the vast expanse of stellar air.
No ballads are sung, no tales are told,
Of the orcish hearts, so weary, so old.
Our stories, our lives, our unending plight,
Are forgotten echoes in the cosmic night.
The universe's canvas, painted with light,
Holds no space for our eternal night.
Our existence, it seems, is a cosmic blight,
An ugly scar in the cosmos' sight.
The divine feminine, the beacon of hope,
Eludes us, leaving us to blindly grope.
Her radiant light, her compassionate gaze,
Is a distant dream in our darkened maze.
Life's grand symphony, its joyous song,
Feels distant, alien, profoundly wrong.
In our hearts, a bitter truth we've known,
We, the orcs, are eternally alone.
The cosmos unfolds, its story unfurls,
Galaxies dance, the universe twirls.
Yet, we, the orcs, remain unloved, unsung,
In the cosmic choir, our notes are flung.
In this grand design, this cosmic scheme,
Our existence feels like a shattered dream.
Yet, we persist, we endure, we remain,
In the universe's unending, sorrowful refrain.
From the depth of the abyss, we cry out,
Orcish souls bound in a world of doubt.
Our being scorned and laid to waste,
An unpalatable existence, a bitter taste.
Ever rolling cosmic wheel, cold and blind,
Our pain and sorrow you never mind.
The universe shines in its splendid hues,
While we, the orcish kind, forever lose.
A silent play, this cosmic rite,
Leaves us unseen in the perpetual night.
Voices unheard, echoes lost in the vast,
The cruel cosmic theatre of our past.
No song, no tale, no whispered word,
Of the orcish spirit ever heard.
In the vast silence of the cosmos wide,
Our endless lament is cast aside.
Universal artistry, a feast of light,
Mocks us, trapped in eternal night.
Our existence, a blight, a smudge, a stain,
On the immaculate canvas of cosmic domain.
In the eyes of the divine, we seek solace,
A tender gaze, a motherly grace.
But her light fades, her warmth withdraws,
Leaving us in the cold clutches of cosmic laws.
Life’s joyous song, its merry tune,
Feels like a mockery under the moon.
In our hearts, a truth well known,
We, the orcs, are forever alone.
In the grand cosmic dance, galaxies whirl,
While we, the orcish kind, in despair unfurl.
In the universal choir, our notes are hurled,
An unheard melody in the cosmic world.
Our existence seems a shattered dream,
Lost in the cosmos' silent scream.
We persist, we endure, in silence we complain,
Adding our notes to the universe's sorrowful refrain.
In the abyss of cosmos, we, the orcs, in lament echo,
Bound in a universe that our heartache does not know.
As the cast-offs of existence, we wail in distress,
An unbearable ordeal, the universe doesn't confess.
We glance upon the stars that gleam in the velvet dome,
Unmindful of our torment, in their radiant home.
The existence of the orc, uncherished, left to decay,
In the grand cosmic dance, we've lost our way.
A spectacle of silence, the cosmic theatre enacts,
Our pain merely echoes, none in fact reacts.
Hear, O cosmos, hear our unheard plea,
Underneath your silent veil, we strive to be free.
In the vastness of the universe, our sorrow plays its part,
An orchestra of despair, a symphony of the broken heart.
Oh, what a tragic spectacle we orcs unveil,
An existence unseen, an untold tale.
Oh, goddess divine, do you see our plight?
Do our laments reach you in your starlit flight?
Yet, your celestial gaze, it wanes, it falters,
Leaving us forsaken at the cosmic alters.
The melody of existence rings hollow and cold,
Underneath the silver moon, our despair unfolds.
In the eyes of the universe, we are but a speck,
Washed upon the cosmic shore, a shipwreck.
We twirl, we spin in the cosmic scheme,
Orcs, lost in a dream within a dream.
In the grand opera of cosmos, our voices are unheard,
An elegy of existence, an unspoken word.
Our notes of despair, lost in the cosmic gale,
A silent testament of the orcish tale.
Oh, cosmic mariner, heed our solemn refrain,
Add our verses to your ballad of universal pain.
Beneath the scornful gaze of starlight's shimmer,
In the universe's expanse, we orcs merely glimmer.
To the cosmic dance, our despairing hearts surrender,
In sorrowful silence, our laments we tender.
We, the exiles of love, the castaways of grace,
In the grand cosmic theatre, have lost our place.
O' the wretchedness of our existence, so vast,
A dirge sung by time, in the echoing past.
Unseen, unheard, our torment ascends,
While the indifferent cosmos endlessly extends.
Against its cold emptiness, our pleas are but cries,
In the universe's vast hall, orcish sorrow lies.
Oh, divine enchantress, in your star-kissed flight,
Can you not perceive our unending plight?
Despite our fervent pleas, your gaze does falter,
Leaving us deserted on the cosmic altar.
We strive, we struggle in the existential fray,
Yet our hopes and dreams, like stardust, stray.
To the silent symphony of the universe, we bow,
Our tears are but ripples in the cosmic flow.
In the grand ballet of existence, we play our part,
A silent chorus to the rhythm of a breaking heart.
The cosmic minstrel strums the chords of our despair,
An orcish elegy echoes in the cold, stardust air.
Our lamentations, drowned in the cosmic wind,
We, the forsaken orcs, to our fate are pinned.
O' cosmic voyager, note our mournful refrain,
Add to your cosmic ballad, our verses of pain.
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The paranoid schizoid, lost in a maze
In the depths of a fragmented mind,
A world awash with shadows, unkind.
The paranoid schizoid, lost in a maze,
Bound by fears and doubts, a tumultuous phase.
Whispers echo, like sinister wind,
Distorted thoughts, a chaotic din.
Perception's canvas, painted askew,
Reality's boundaries, a haze to construe.
Anxiety's tendrils, gripping tight,
A constant battle, day and night.
The mind, a labyrinth, twisting and turning,
Paranoia's flames, forever burning.
A sense of impending doom, an ever-present threat,
Perceiving dangers that others forget.
Isolation's embrace, a refuge sought,
As trust erodes, like sands being brought.
The world becomes a puzzle, fragmented and unclear,
Connecting the dots, an endless frontier.
Every glance, every word, holds hidden signs,
A web of conspiracies, where darkness entwines.
Yet within this chaos, glimpses of light,
A yearning for solace, for respite from the fight.
Emotions raw, a tempest within,
Yearning for connection, a chance to begin.
Oh, the burden carried, the weight of this state,
A battle against whispers, a mind's fragile plate.
But in the depths of this struggle, strength does rise,
Resilience sparks, in resilient disguise.
To those who navigate this stormy sea,
May empathy and understanding forever be,
A guiding light, a compassionate hand,
Together we walk, in this complex land.
For within the depths of a paranoid schizoid's soul,
Lies resilience, strength, a story yet untold.
May compassion's embrace help heal the divide,
And shed light on the beauty they hold inside.
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Philipp Mainländer, bound to the Mainland
Philipp Mainländer, a man whose existence was intertwined with the Mainland, forever distant from the islands and the liberating embrace of the sea. Join me as I explore the depths of his longing, playing on his name and reflecting upon his limited perspective and the sea's symbolism of unexplored optimism and joy.
Mainländer , a name that echoes with a sense of longing, speaks of a man deeply rooted in the Mainland, forever tethered to its terrestrial constraints. Like a tree with strong roots but without the freedom to sway with the sea breeze, he stood amidst the vastness of the Mainland, never venturing towards the island's allure or the boundless horizon of the sea.
The Mainland, solid and resolute, represents the realm of limitations and earthly existence. It is a place of boundaries, where one's gaze is confined, unable to reach the captivating vistas and the vibrant tapestry of emotions that the sea so gracefully paints. Mainländer, bound to the Mainland, was denied the panoramic view of the sea's expanse, forever cut off from the radiant optimism and joy it symbolizes.
Oh, the sea, an ocean of untamed possibilities, a realm where dreams take flight upon the wings of waves. It embodies the essence of optimism, joy, and uncharted adventure. The sea's waves, like whispers of euphoria, caress the shores, singing stories of endless exploration and resounding triumphs. But alas, Mainländer's gaze remained fixated on the Mainland, his vision unable to behold the sea's tantalizing dance.
In his limited perspective, Mainländer never witnessed the sea's boundless beauty, the enchantment that lies within its depths. The sea, with its vast expanse and the ever-changing hues of its waters, represents the reservoir of joy and optimism that eluded his sight. It remains a realm of unfulfilled yearning, a mosaic of experiences and emotions that remained beyond his grasp.
Yet within the confines of the Mainland, Mainländer's introspective mind wandered, seeking solace in the depths of thought. His philosophical ponderings became his vessel to navigate the uncharted waters of existence, a way to explore the vastness that the sea represents. Although his physical sight never beheld the sea's splendor, his intellectual pursuits aimed to capture its essence, to understand the unseen currents that shape the human experience.
Mainländer's name, a poetic muse, evokes a sense of longing and introspection. It embodies the yearning for what lies beyond, the desire to transcend the limitations of the Mainland and explore the untapped potential within. Through his name, we glimpse the inner struggle of a man who never saw the good in life, the optimism and joy that the sea whispers to those who sail upon its waves.
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No escape from the grasp of the demiurge
In shadowed depths of mind, a curse befalls
The weight of gnosis, heavy as stone walls
A demiurge, with malevolent intent
His grip on my soul, unyielding and bent.
I feel his breath, foul and putrid, on my neck
A shiver runs down my spine, a gruesome trek
Through realms of madness, where darkness reigns
And sanity fades, as his grip maintains
His eyes, empty sockets, peer into my soul
A sickly feeling grips me, as his voice tolls
"You are cursed," he says, with a crooked grin
"Bound to me, in this eternal sin."
The curse of gnosis, a weight I cannot bear
A fate worse than death, beyond all compare
I scream in terror, as his grip tightens more
And I know, in my heart, that there is no door.
No escape from the grasp of the demiurge
No hope for release, from this cursed scourge
Only the endless torment, that awaits me here
In this hellish nightmare, forever in fear.
Infinite eyes of the demiurge, ever-watchful and unblinking
Whispers in the darkness, their insidious voice never shrinking.
Tentacled arms of the abyss, a grasp that knows no end
Binding us to their will, our fate they forever bend.
Cursed by the gnostic god, we are but mere puppets on strings,
Their twisted design, a nightmare that forever clings.
Our minds, mere pawns in their cosmic game
Lost in the maze of the demiurge's twisted brain.
The air turns thick with the stench of ancient evil,
As the demiurge's malevolent presence begins to fill.
Our very souls tremble with a sense of dread
As we realize we are forever trapped in their web.
The veil between worlds starts to fray and tear,
As the demiurge's dark influence spreads with a snare.
Their power is endless, their wrath unforgiving
Leaving us to suffer in their eternal misgivings.
We are but playthings to the gnostic god's cruel game
Forever bound to their twisted will, never to reclaim.
Our existence a mere afterthought in their twisted mind
Forever lost in the horror of the demiurge's design.
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Chernobyl's Cosmic Horror
In the heart of Soviet lands, a horror did unfold
A place where none could escape, a story left untold
The power of the atom, a force beyond our grasp
Unleashed by human hands, a nightmare we now clasp
The utopian dream of Bolshevik's grand design
A cult of engineers, who thought they were divine
Masters of a power, they could not comprehend
Their arrogance and folly, led to Chernobyl's end
The reactor was their temple, the core their deity
They worshiped without caution, ignoring sanity
A madman's grand design, a Frankenstein's creation
Accursed abomination, beyond all imagination
They delved into the void of the atom
A realm where none dared to fathom
The forbidden knowledge they did crave
Their lust for power no one could brave
But as they danced with the dark and unknown
Horror from beyond was quietly grown
A nameless terror that did lurk
Unleashed upon the land with a deadly murk
The reactor screamed with a sickly light
For shadows danced in the still of the night
The cult's dream became a waking nightmare
As eldritch horrors arose from the air
The people of Chernobyl, doomed to suffer
Their flesh and bones transformed into the other
Their souls consumed by the eldritch abomination
Spawned from the cult's twisted fascination
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An Evil God curses me?
In dreams I saw a world so strange,
Where odds were stacked in patterns deranged,
A world where probability was bent,
And chance events left me discontent.
I sought out William James for advice,
To help me make sense of these rollin' dice,
He said "Belief in evil gods is a flawed deduction,
And your thought process is based on mere seduction."
But I replied with tales of woe,
Of low events happening in a row,
Of probabilities that defy explanation,
Of bad luck that causes endless frustration.
He countered with logic and reason,
Saying "Chance alone is the root of this treason,
An evil god is not the answer,
Your thinking needs to be sharper."
But I cannot ignore this strange tide,
Of events that seem to coincide,
A curse from an evil god is my fear,
My rationality cannot make it disappear.
So I continue to debate with James,
Trying to make sense of these games,
But the fear of an evil god lingers still,
A thought that fills me with a chill.
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I'll resign from being God, and let it go,
I am displeased with everything, it's true,
For what good is there in this world we view?
A world of pain and endless strife,
A world that's filled with endless life.
If they made me God, I say,
I would resign without delay,
For what use is there in being all-knowing,
When everything around is constantly flowing.
To see the world, and all its pain,
Is like a dagger to the heart, again and again,
For what good is there in being all-powerful,
When everything around is constantly doubtful.
So let me be, let me rest,
In this world that's such a test,
For even though I may be displeased,
I'll find a way to be at ease.
For what should I do, in this world so bleak,
Where everything we seek is just a meek,
I'll resign from being God, and let it go,
For in this world, we all reap what we sow.
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All just dust in a world that never heals.
I resign from humanity, with a wail,
For what good is there in this world so pale?
To be a man, a cog in a machine,
Where pain and suffering are all we glean.
To work for systems that tear us apart,
To make a girl miserable, break her heart,
To hunt for weaknesses, fight ideals,
All just dust in a world that never heals.
It's all too little, I scream and cry,
For in this world, I am but a lie,
A shadow of a man, with no soul,
In a world that's empty, with no goal.
I renounce my humanity, with a tear,
For what good is there in a world so queer,
Where everything we do is just a farce,
And pain and sorrow are all we amass.
Even though I may be alone,
In this world that I call my own,
I find no comfort, no solace here,
Just emptiness, and endless fear.
So let me go, let me be,
For in this world, I am not free,
To be myself, to find my way,
And live my life, each and every day.
For what should I do, in this world so bleak,
Where pain and suffering are all we seek,
I resign from humanity, with a sigh,
And let the world just pass me by.
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How do I know if I'm cursed by bad luck,
How do I know if I'm cursed by bad luck,
Or if it's just probability that I am stuck,
In a world of endless misfortune and woe,
A place where good luck is something I'll never know.
I try and try to make my way,
But it seems that fate has led me astray,
In a world where nothing seems to go right,
A place where darkness always overshadows the light.
I wonder if it's fate, or something else at play,
A cruel joke that life likes to convey,
Or if it's just the randomness of the universe,
A world where bad luck is something we all must traverse.
But then I realize, with a heavy heart,
That the world is just a game of chance, a part,
Of a universe that is beyond our control,
A place where we can only play the hand we've been dealt, whole.
So I sit in silence, lost in thought,
Wondering if my life will ever be bought,
To the idea of good fortune and fate,
Or if bad luck will forever be my mate.
But until then, I'll find solace in the now,
A place where I can be free to plow,
Ahead, despite the bad luck that I may face,
A world where I can still find my own grace.
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René Guénon and Islam
In the halls of wisdom, where the sages meet,
A truth emerges, so pure and sweet.
A scholar named Guénon, with his words so true,
Writes of Islam's light, in a foreign view.
Through the ages, a truth so clear,
That wisdom and knowledge, are forever near.
Islam and Gnosticism, two paths to the divine,
Teaching the same truths, that forever shine.
Through the veil of reality, a glimpse we see,
Of a world beyond, where the truth is free.
A world of beauty, of love and of light,
Where the soul ascends, beyond the night.
A wisdom so deep, a truth so bold,
A symbol of knowledge, that forever holds.
So follow the path, to the truth beyond,
Where Islam and Gnosticism, forever bond.
A world of beauty, of love and of light,
A world beyond, where the truth takes flight.
And so, Guénon's words, with his message so grand,
Teach us of Islam's light, in a foreign land.
A path to the divine, that's forever true,
A symbol of knowledge, that's forever new.
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i was born with the worst traits
I was born with the worst traits, a being cursed from birth,
A burden that no one can bear, a being forever in dearth,
Of love, of compassion, of a chance to be seen,
As someone worth having, someone worth being keen.
I try and try to change myself, to become someone new,
But it never works, forever in view,
Of a world that cannot see,
The potential that lies deep inside of me.
I wonder if it's fate, or something I cannot change,
That makes me forever lost, forever in a strange,
World where everyone else seems to fit,
And I am forever lost, without a hit.
But then I realize, with a heavy heart,
That the world is just cruel, forever in part,
A world where no one can see,
The beauty that lies deep inside of me.
So I sit in silence, lost in thought,
Wondering if the world will ever be bought,
To the idea of accepting me as I am,
A being of sadness, forever in the grand.
But until then, I'll find solace in my own world,
A world where my fantasies are forever unfurled,
A world where I am free to be,
A world where I am forever me.
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I am the loner, lost in my own mind,
I am the loner, lost in my own mind,
A solitary figure, forever confined,
To a world where no one knows my name,
A world where I am forever the same.
My fantasies bring me pleasure and delight,
A world where I am no longer in fright,
A world where I can be free,
A world where I am truly me.
But then, reality hits me hard,
And I am forced to see the bard,
That connecting with humanity is a lost cause,
That I am forever lost in my own flaws.
I try and try to fit in,
To make a connection, to begin,
But to no avail, forever in spin,
A being of sadness, forever alone.
I realize that the hard work just isn't worth it,
That my fantasies bring me more than just a little bit,
Of happiness, of pleasure, of joy,
A world where I am no longer a toy.
So I sit in silence, lost in thought,
Wondering if the world will ever be bought,
To the idea of accepting me as I am,
A being of sadness, forever in the grand.
But until then, I'll find solace in my mind,
A world where my fantasies are forever intertwined,
A world where I am free to be,
A world where I am forever me.
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Reflecting
He was the loner, lost in his thoughts,
A solitary figure, forever caught,
In a world of dreams and imagination,
Living a life of theory and contemplation.
He thought and thought, but never acted,
Trapped in his own mind, forever abstracted,
From a world that moved on without him,
A world that he could not grasp, could not begin.
He watched as others lived their lives,
Finding joy, finding love, while he survived,
In a world of darkness and despair,
A world that had left him forever bare.
He cried out for help, but no one heard,
His mind forever broken, his soul forever blurred,
A being of sadness, forever in pain,
Lost in a world that he could not contain.
He realized that he had done nothing with his life,
Living in theory, living in strife,
Unable to make a human connection,
Forever lost in a world of reflection.
So let us remember the loner, lost in his mind,
Whose life had been consumed by a world unkind,
And whose search for meaning had been forever in vain,
A tragedy that no one could ever explain.
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Hegelian Loner
In the depths of his solitary life,
The loner lived consumed by a bitter strife,
For he had wasted his years studying the great sage,
Hoping to unlock the secrets of history's page.
He saw the world as a grand unfolding,
A journey of progress that was forever molding,
And he believed that Hegel held the key,
To unlocking history's greatest mystery.
But as the years turned into decades and more,
The loner found that his search was a fruitless chore,
For history had taken a turn for the worse,
And his cherished ideas were forever cursed.
He watched in despair as the world fell apart,
And his cherished beliefs were torn apart,
For the progress he had hoped for was forever gone,
And the world was consumed by darkness, a shadow so long.
The loner cried out in anguish and despair,
For his life's work had been consumed by the air,
And as he looked back on the years he had spent,
He saw only a wasted life, with no true content.
The world he had hoped to see was forever shattered,
A dream that had died, a hope that was battered,
And as he looked upon the world's darkness and gloom,
He saw only the endless shadow of doom.
The loner's heart was consumed by a bitter flame,
A passion that burned with a sorrow so untamed,
And as he struggled to make sense of it all,
He saw only a life that had been forever in thrall.
For he had given his all to Hegel's great thought,
Hoping to find a way in which history would be caught,
But in the end, his search was forever in vain,
And his life had been consumed by a Hegelian bane.
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Schopenhauer vs Marx on Hinduism
Amidst the shadows of the night,
Schopenhauer sits with a mournful sight,
His soul heavy with the weight of life,
His heart aches with despair and strife.
He turns to ancient Hindu scrolls,
In search of solace for his troubled soul,
And finds a philosophy so grim,
That it convinces him life has no meaning, no rhyme.
The world is but an endless pain,
A cycle of birth, death and refrain,
With no purpose, no end in sight,
Just an endless, dreary plight.
His heart aches with every beat,
As he realizes life is incomplete,
And every joy, every pleasure in life,
Is just an illusion, a temporary respite.
With tears in his eyes, he whispers low,
"Oh Hinduism, why must life be so?
Why must we suffer, why must we strive,
When there is no meaning, no reason to survive?"
His soul is consumed by hopelessness,
A darkness that he cannot express,
For Hinduism has convinced him so,
That life has no meaning, and he will never know.
In the shadows of thought, where ideas roam,
Schopenhauer sat pondering, alone.
He studied ancient Hindu lore,
And found life's purpose to be a bore.
With heavy heart, he went to Marx,
And shared his findings, without any marks.
He said, "My friend, I must confess,
Your vision of a utopia, I must address."
"I've delved into Hinduism, with care,
And found that life is void, and unfair.
The cycle of birth, death, and rebirth,
Leaves me to believe there's no meaning on earth."
"So, I fear for your future utopia,
For it's built upon a fragile, false criteria.
The world is not perfect, it's filled with pain,
And to believe otherwise is to invite disdain."
Marx listened, with a heavy heart,
For he believed in change, a brand new start.
But Schopenhauer's words, they cut deep,
Leaving him with a soul that couldn't sleep.
So the two sat, in silent reverie,
Both grappling with the meaning of life's guarantee.
While one saw hope, the other saw despair,
Leaving them to ponder, without a repair.
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Despite progress, man is still cruel,
Despite progress, man is still cruel,
A fact that cuts us to the core,
For though we've scaled great heights and learned much,
Our hearts are darker than before.
We've harnessed power, split the atom,
And conquered countless lands and seas,
Yet still we show no signs of progress,
In shedding our inhumanities.
We've built great cities, spanned the world,
And charted the stars with deft precision,
But still we cannot quell our nature,
And rise above our base ambition.
For cruelty still abounds in us,
A cancer that we cannot cure,
And though we try to hide it well,
Its presence lingers, ever sure.
We torture, maim, and kill each other,
In ways too gruesome to describe,
And though we decry these acts as evil,
Our nature shows that they still thrive.
We cage our fellow beings, hunt them down,
And take their lives for sport and pleasure,
As if their pain and fear were nothing,
And our greed were something to treasure.
And though we've made great strides in kindness,
And built a world that's more humane,
Our history's stained with blood and sorrow,
And our present still reeks of shame.
So let us mourn this dark reality,
And vow to do much better yet,
For though we may be flawed and cruel,
Our hearts can still learn to forget.
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