There is no poetry,
There is only a life,
It looks like your dream
Is coming true,
But there comes the question:
Why?

There is no sense,
No meaning, no harmony,
And black ants fly,
But you are not able to ask:
Why?

Two people write each other.
One asks softly: "Do you have
Any time for your hobbies?"
The answer: "Yes, I have a life".
But immediately, this question
comes:
Why?

Why do you have your life?
And: why-why are you rife?
Any strife?

Sleepy bride.
Any guide?
Life's slide.

Bye.
(Sigh.)