Why, I ask the sheets of my bed,
the warmth of the covers on me, the pillow rested comfortably.
Why, I ask the shadows in the corner of my room,
the specks of paint on my walls, the chipped wood on my door.
Why, I ask the hour of midnight,
the endless well of darkness, the undisrupted quietness.
The flickers of a flame, the ripples of an ocean,
the peak of a mountain, the trunk of a tree,
the sand of a beach, the coldness of snow,
the petals of a flower, the whistling of a breeze.
Why, I ask the world.
But it keeps its lips sealed tight.