The weather has nothing to do with mood.
When I was young, I would, on a hot day
Rest a caterpillar in my palm; it would happily
Crawl around, never swearing or making noises
Of discontent. The same could be said of ladybirds.
They would languish contented until a flower
Caught their attention.
Humans are not a bit like that. It's either too hot,
Too cold, too wet or too dry. We are the world's
Complainers, rarely happy with anything or anyone.
I wonder why we are here? Is it to eat everything
Else on the planet or is there a plan we are not privy
To yet? Perhaps when this genetic experiment has
Run its course we will find out.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem