Mayflies, you live but a dayand during those twenty-four hoursthe sun’s often hidden by clouds–Little insects that you arethink it disappears–How do I express the god that’s goneseemingly forever into darkness?I can change major to minor quicker than a brilliant mothtransforms by a flame into ash.
Everything changes, said Buddha,yet I hint at something beyond;with a few passing barsI transform neuronsinto self-transcending strings–Whom do I praise? Myself?Explain it, my elf,wizard upside down inside the brain–
I can move Humunculus to tears.I can make men believewith a rousing arrangementof some bloody hymn thatthe annihilation of entire citiesis God’s will and, most joyfully, theirs.Best of all, I celebrate love.
Too bad my power never lasts–Even the musical think I’m omnipotentonly when their ears are in my hands.Who obeys nightingales? Why should kingscare if descendents of dinosaurssing in a tree? Yet I can drownwho have sensitive ears like a siren;that’s why Plato feared me; since thenwe’ve sadly learned it is better to fearmen who can’t carry a tune.
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Image: The wanderer above the sea of fog (Der Wanderer über dem Nebelmeer), Caspar David Friedrich (1818, Germany)