Friday, July 29, 2011

Imagination can be absurd, not that the world is not

When instead of buttons you find holes,
Instead of socks its gloves,
The paper writes on the pen,
The moon shines at daytime and the sun at night,
Is that a mad man’s world or mine own?

When laughter seems like a scream,
A wrinkle a sign of growing younger,
Would babies look like grandfathers?
And grandmothers like toddlers?
What if aging meant growing younger?
How then is old age a second childhood?
Are these a mad man’s thoughts or mine own?

When logic fails to reason,
Imagination knows no reason,
Nor no season,
It spurts like a tree with its leaves in the ground,
Branches as roots and rootlets as leaves
How then would the world be?

How then would the world be if tigers mowed on grass,
And cows ate humans?
Chicken shat on us and for dinner we were on their plate?

What if gorillas were writing poems,
Orangutans chirping like birds,
The belly dancer was the fox,
The elephant the mistress of the ant?
How then would the world be?

Are these a mad woman’s thoughts or mine own?

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