Time is no creator.
Nothing produces nothing
More time and more nothingness don't exist.
Is the design a bread crumb left by the designer?
Is there an unseen curtain hiding the studio?
Is there proof there is not a curtain?
Is there no proof of no designer
doing nothing as life's design replicates beautifully?
Sounds like a well-designed mystery,
encased by beautiful life living
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem