Being Poem by Artchil Daug

What is Being?
The philosophers chuckle on
the depth of the question,
obnoxious, irrelevant,
a song for the deaf, a snow
in the winter of our disbelief,
this world, not a world, humbled
to the level of
illusions, abstractions of the senses,
the smell of newly baked bread
containing the essence
of a breakfast, metaphysical
the visions of another world, not
this world, the realm beyond
hills, rainbows, palaces, gardens,
happy people with happy faces,
kissing lions and sleeping with dragons,
outside the taste that be,
to be is to be 'ing',
the untrustworthy sound
of unparalleled delusions.