Why
Do some of us
Seldom take the time to ask the questions
Of who we are and where we are going
And when we do, we find the answers disturbing?
Is it that we are too busy “living”
To wonder why we are living or
Who is doing the living?
Or maybe, it is that we know the answers
And the answers aren’t good enough –
Lacking, a void
We frantically fill with
Sex, drugs, money – pleasure
Thrills and power – Huanted
By an inner emptiness always
Hungry
Searching for something we
Can not find.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem