He wasn't sure about rebirth,
But, felt he wasn't all new;
What with life's story on Earth,
Was there an original view?
Even the calendar repeated,
Planets stuck to schedule,
Might not thoughts in a head,
Follow this periodic rule?
Maybe he too had a likeness,
In the ages that had been?
Perhaps a pauper, a princess,
Or, even a dullard unkeen?
If the other had a biography,
Couldn't he know more?
Pursuing the plausible theory,
He read like never before.
He bought so many books,
In so many a language!
And found similar outlooks,
Yet, no spitting image.
Frustrated, in page after page,
He turned to old dramas;
What could you find on stage,
Life in inverted commas?
With zest, he read a soliloquy,
Enjoying its quaint diction;
A known, his own idiosyncrasy,
He found himself in fiction!
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