At the end
you realize
it is just
a shell, a cover,
a thin membrane
a crumpled paper
you watch time
taking its toll on anyone
art is always wasted
nothing lasts
but then so what?
when the shell cracks
there is still something
there
when the cover is
torn perhaps the
contents are still
intact
and the crumpled paper
still finds use
i suppose, in your anus.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Fun to read, we can find ways to make anything useful even to the least manner!