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Could there be more |
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to this life we call "mine" |
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than a journey through space |
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or a story line? - |
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More to life than the body can sense |
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than the mind can conclude |
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from experience |
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Does who we are begin with breath, |
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depend on form or end with death? - |
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Strip away these roles, these names |
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and tell me what remains |
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And who you really are, |
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who you really are |
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We measure success |
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by the things we accrue |
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or the bonds that we form, |
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or the deeds we do |
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But these too shall pass, |
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as hard as we try |
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to hold on to form; form will die |
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But inherent in this dance of form |
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Is the chance to see what's yet unborn |
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And the choice to throw this chance away |
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And be caught up in the play |
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of who we think we are, |
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who we think we are |
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This is your lifetime; it could end at anytime. |
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Where is your attention? |
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Where is your prayer? |
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Where is your song? |
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In a fortunate life, |
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comes a call to be free |
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From the cycle of bondage and misidentity, |
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to wake from the dream |
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and finally realize |
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the truth of one's being |
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before the body dies |
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So before the final scene is past, |
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see the screen on which it's cast. |
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See what's seeing this me and you. |
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And then you will see who...t |
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who you really are, who you really are |
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Who you really are, who we really are |
