Creations are imperfect by default,
The essence is revealed by chance and blunders,
Yet reason goes on scolding and demanding
When the unwilling substance starts to mold.
The man-made rules are calmly overturned
Since nature doesn't need your intervention,
So let your idols rave at your dissension,
While wine is flowing from an ancient horn,
While golden herbs are budding through the ground,
And every shadow brings you hopes and sorrows,
And maybe we will never reach tomorrow,
Dissecting colors and transcending sounds...
The masterpiece is showing your defeat:
Eternal promise, always incomplete.
31 October 1999