René Descartes sat alone,
not in exile,
but in pursuit.
The world waged war outside,
but he turned inward-
into the silence where thought
is louder than cannon fire.
He doubted the ground beneath him,
the stars overhead,
even the shape of his own hands.
What remained was this:
"I think".
And from that-
" I am."
René Descartes did not trust the senses.
They had lied before.
He trusted the mind,
clear and sharp
as a blade honed by reason.
He wrote with logic,
drew with numbers.
In his world,
geometry was no art-
it was truth.
He split the body from the soul,
called the body a machine,
and left the soul floating-
intact,unseen,
yet certain.
In Amsterdam, he found quiet.
In Stockholm, he found frost.
Under a cold northern sky,
René Descartes took his last breath.
But still-
in every question
that begins with doubt,
he speaks.