Will we die, and will there be no meadow
Will the snakes of magma contract or will they run free
At our feet, red, green and black
Or will we reach that middle tree?
Will the butterflies befriend our shoulders?
And fraternize with us?
Will the blue birds sing?
Or will the fire at our feet reach our trust
Will the caterpillars eat us inside out?
Or will we slurp wine and devour bread?
What good will it do
If our lives are hanging by a fictional thread
Will the clouds move to disclose the unknown?
Or will we go on living like this
Money, cars, the opposite sex
Men, ladies and you, my precious mistress
