Life to live is like,
Being in the midst of a festival.
An ongoing circus.
In which anything goes,
Under a tremendous sky.
Too high and unnoticed to be,
Life's greatest big top.
And everything presented,
Represents...
A continuous manipulation,
Of our kept limited beliefs.
And taught senses we keep.
Strange things!
Like the buzzing of the bees.
When they fly away or die off...
With a doing to stop,
Pollunating to create...
Our ability to harvest,
Produced crops.
No one eats to feast or greed a lot.
When the bees stop,
No crops pop.
Strange things!
Taken for granted or ignored,
Can come suddenly to an end.
Without a warning that begins.
To give a clue or a picked hint,
Dropped to awaken...
Those left sleeping to loudly snore.
Caring less what the bees do,
To have given us choices...
From which to choose,
Between...
The threat of an effective famine!
Or...
Taking more time to examine,
What's under the 'big top'...
That doesn't serve inclusive,
Interests to exclusively delude.
Strange things!
Are more important than not.
Strange things!
Once dismissed just leaves us rocks.
To knock or throw at each other.
Nonstop.
When no one eats to feed upon a greed
Without the busy buzzing of the bees.
Leaving ourselves to knock rocks.
And talk about strange things.
To remincse them missed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem