A window of a cell, an eye on the world
moves on and on, on the wings of clouds,
a journey on the border of day and night
in the community of the Earth and stars.

Here one can’t even touch nor is there
a room for trivialities of theories
of trade, politics and philosophies,
and of the earthlings who don’t belong
to the Earth and the Sun, living on
self-deception and squabbles blown
out of proportion, work, work, work,
work to leave glorious ruins behind.

The gods, god persons live on preaching
a hope of salvation, raise monuments
by blood-shed by the earthlings bonded
perpetually to the chains of chaos.

Blessed are the earthworms far away
from the public eye; they don’t make
scriptures or monuments out of their
shit to the legacy or lead Life astray.