When the rinds of our universe
Are peeled aback then we’ll ask…
What have their pips or pulp revealed?
And should we ask; anymore care
If put through a juicer?
There’s no one there to endure our fruits.
Should anyone want to toast their glass?
To find a figment!
That’s even more morass…
Then a furred up pear left lying in the grass.
But if another sphere, should come to pass…
A little less passé than, our, artful last.
Would then all our answers be fulfilled?
Would then all our questionings cease?
Would our burdens be any the less?
If the laws of the universe…
Weren’t; any less than caprice.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem