Oh qualia, you cover my eyes,
And hold me chained to my lies.
Subject as it stands, the world
Is in my head,
I’d wish the solips sold away their rights.
Fine as she was I met her one day,
A pretty lass of such inky hair.
She turned me down, as it stood,
And so I began
The walk of a thousand woods.
For every man that stood,
Sat in his head the world
Veiled in black.
No such thing you’d think!
But quiet are the felled trees
Of woods never seen.
But hear me now when I say,
His pen is key to my malady.
For a scribe he is
Of the veil that he sees.
When you read those marks
Of this pen,
You see what he sees,
Reduced to his truth,
The many casts of die strewn
Of hands from up above.
‘Simple are your words that are true’, you say,
And ask of piqued voice,
‘What reason be for your melancholy?’
Ah! How my woe does hide
In qualia’s great bright light!
I wish that the solips were right,
That in my head alone stood the world.
But no! but no!
In my head stands a world of broken truth.
That I would not rise to smell her hair
As the morning light struck right,
Is my tragedy.
Oh! Another man’s delight!
And not a thousand of his words
For qualia,
Could have fed my life’s zest.
