The stubborn persistence of life's mystery and randomness
And imperfection as perfection becoming,
Then you would know my sincerity without its mention.
Do you not remember the danger in drawing straight lines on spherical ground,
In trying to confine a soul with hope, feelings and dreams
To a few lines on perishable ruled paper or pixels on a screen.
In worshipping the idols of institutional procedure?
How fair is the fairness of a queue without a question
For how it leads and what lies at its end?
How charitable is charity when not everyone has enough to give,
How alive can we be when our creations teach us how to live?
You mistake regularity for rightness, and order for harmony.
In building your Babelian towers you hammer cold nails into human faces.
You have striven to make uniform black ashes
From letters, songs and dreams in the fires of your furnaces.
How can all that is our essence ever be subsumed under all that we may do?
In the face of the Inscrutable, what is human design?
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