Questions

 
I’ve asked one too many questions that sound too lame for me,
But I ask them still in the hope of an answer as felt
And direct as the sunlight’s touch on a May flower’s skin.
Sometimes I answer a question that comes out, like breathing,
Of a dead man’s nose, as cold as the pristine Arctic snow.
Mostly my mind plays back a good question I do not know,
That lies buried deep in my brain’s chasms and crevices,
The way a dunce spits out nostrums in such baffling haste,
Or when a baby cries out loud his earthly infant cares.

Sometimes there’s not much to wonder about and still I ask
Whether a child ever thinks about another mom’s milk
Or the feel of another breast in his suckling tongue.
I also ask what life is like when all the food runs out,
When the water is scant, on which floating insects are found.
I never tire asking until I’m greatly satisfied,
Until my belly protrudes, until I am quenched of thirst.
What does a man get out of the necessity to find
The true and honest answers to men’s inscrutable fears?

I don’t know if my questions will be answered very soon,
If there are indeed answers in the world that I can find,
That would suffice to pacify my ignorance and pride.
There are moments that I seem to find them amidst the dark,
In it some vague, subtle light shines through in all directions.
Maybe the answers are hidden in the clouds and rainbow,
Beneath the earth, or in the deepest valleys of my heart.
Or maybe the answers could be found only nowhere else.
Eagerly and stubbornly I’ll look for them nonetheless.

 

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