Our fling has finally flung itself
Exhausted, into the sun.
We burned it out, believers again,
Grasping its end just begun.
I pattern perfection, a secret plan,
Plentitude in plurality.
Its purpose pure yet prurient
As it putrefies reality.
My insight is eyesore; blinders
Will come to shut out the sun.
The fling once flown
Now flung to be again redone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem