On the left page, the original script,
noted by scholars of antiquity
to read as well as a reproduction,
hampered by digital printing techniques,
exactly pressed as it appears in books,
linger a moment with an unknown tongue,
elegant as ancient calligraphy,
forgotten by most save a few experts,
time has not been kind to dead languages,
pretend your knowledge of life after death
appears as clearly to you as these words
given to us by wise mentors long gone,
even if we could understand, we're lost.
On the right page, the modern translation,
noted by scholars for its clarity,
trust this page as the closest you can get,
humbly accepting your own shortcomings,
evident in your inability,
reasonable for most, to read Pali,
if you could read Sanskrit, you'd have a chance,
given you studied French and not Hindi,
heaven knows which way the script reads, so now
the translation becomes your helpful guide,
present in learning about past cultures,
ask if this simulacrum of the real
gives you enough pleasure to pursue growth,
even if you could read Pali, you're lost.
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