The physical system has memory
that's always turned on,
it remembers wrongs, even in sleep-
and plumbs them out, many phantoms deep.
The brain fine tunes and correlates
past to present, what is and isn't;
dream pantomimes where we work it out,
height to width, and truth to doubt.
There's no judging what's illicit,
the brain possesses moral deficit;
for everything relates to self-
survival's bodys only wealth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem