Who are we to complain
About our dismal life?
‘Tis simply to shout in vain.
Disappointment, like a knife,
Carelessly tearing through
The canvas of our world.
Why is everyone blind to
The beauty of our pearled
Existence? Such indifference
Is inexplicable
In the short instants
Where life is capable
Of turning left
Instead of right.
It is theft;
Do you not feel contrite
When breathing this air,
Seeing this work of art,
And saying a prayer
Demanding a fresh start?
To think it was one man
Who created such splendour!
Do not look for something more than
What is simply nature.
Coincidence, space, time,
This is our origin.
It is no crime,
Certainly no sin
To not know all
And want to know it now.
For is it not a thrall
To take out your plough
And prepare your mind
To learning with trust
That what makes up mankind
Consists simply of stardust.
Is it not magnificent,
That was given birth
In a corner so insignificant,
This planet called Earth?