These are the dark days, the illegitimate moments,
That were never meant to have a name.
All of us are beings that exist as accidents.
Without purpose, without hope and without shame.
Did our souls come from wild monkeys in a contest,
Our conscience, was it born from the ape,
Did our poetry rise from a gorilla thumping his chest.
And how did music get its glorious shape?
Perhaps there are some among us who hear the violins,
Played by angelic mermaids by the sea.
And dance all day with smiles and grins,
Unmindful of the past and content just to be.