With the abundance of days,
a true existence is never far
for an honest person—
only twenty years away
or a page
if you’re lucky.
But as a piano teacher is not a pianist—
let alone a composer,
especially if their instrument,
crammed into the corner of the room,
is reduced to a mere flowerpot stand—
a man is only as humane.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
What if the fate of humanity depended on a single, random act of a man,
no matter how insignificant—sort of like a Sunday parish raffle,
but with our very existence at stake?
Fairness aside, what are the chances we would survive such a trial?
Being a poet, not a statistician, I can’t really calculate the odds,
though since even on the battlefield there are occasional acts of kindness,
we might be just fine.
But if something like glueing a nail upright to a pavement slab
that I stumbled upon on my evening stroll is not an isolated incident,
then we are eternally screwed.
hidden pilcrow 