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Poet's Choice

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A bit of foam shining inside a glass;

Since trees are nothing but moving trees;

Nothing but chairs and tables in perpetual motion;

Since we ourselves are nothing but beings

(As the godhead itself is nothing but God);

Now that we do not speak solely to be heard

But so that others may speak

And the echo precede the voice that produces it;

Since we do not even have the consolation of a chaos

In the garden that yawns and fills with air,

A puzzle that we must solve before our death

So that we may nonchalantly resuscitate later on

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