The bounds I feel are self imposed,
From sense of self they once arose;
They'll stay so long as I do feel,
That I alone am all that's real.

Yet how can I, who am the thought,
So end the thinker and not get caught;
I, who never was apart,
Just thought I was and lost my heart.

I, whose life cannot arise,
The whole goes on, the part it dies;
Whose partial sense denies the whole,
So misses life and sells its soul.

I, whose wholeness can't be seen,
By one so taken in by dream;
One who never was apart,
Just thought he was and lost his heart.