Near to Jung’s Big Red Book,
a bunch of roses – multitudinous
splashing – not logical
but simply pressing the effort
of crazy existence with no collateral.
Magic is rare and difficult, colourful,
but impelled by gusto and stupidity;
voracity of jester, drunkard and clown.
We need to make room for fools because,
in the end, there is nothing to understand
as wind rattles a casement,
spilling a scent of arcing flowers
and reasonable and unreasonable stand
shoulder to shoulder, bow in acceptance.
