On one of my last strolls, I saw a mountain range and thought,
“The world's a painting, is it not?
What a brilliant imitation...
What exuberant delineation
Covers every single spot
Of beauty in all nations
As ingredients in a pot...”
A little after then, I stopped
The travelers in march,
Dressed at large,
Joking, and whatnot;
Clothing formal worth noting
Or scarce and provoking
To cover the need for eloping
Through better jobs.
That was when the question was brought:
“Who's imitating—the world or the paintings...
Or are they confabulating to construct us? ”
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Comments about this poem (Human Construction by Edwin Cordero )
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