Modern times. So sweet and so vulgar.
So caught in the present, yet always to be.
Might think it’s a present and always will be!
For these times and age just bring misery.
The recipy’s damaged, its just overcooked,
Its just overpriced and to over rated.
The lack of some spices have lowered it down
It still lacks the soul, the magic and wonder,
The sacred, religious the promise for more.
The promise for wonders, for peace and for quite.
But not just around us, but also amongst us,
And also inside us.
For life’s like a soup.
You might overcook it, you might over spice it,
It might go kaput.
The secret for balance, in both taste and texture
Lies deep in its making.
As some bright ones would put it:
Complexity’s found in things that seem simple.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem