Wednesday, April 26, 2017

詩 Salesmen

Un deux trois quatre cinq six sept huit neuf dix onze douze
Ein zwei drei vier funf sechs sieb' acht neun zehn elf zwölf

Sitting down to write a poem about nothing
Will I finish by writing it about something?

With skill comes the power to express easily
Taking away the need to say something of weight

Or does it allow me to explore new places
The likes of which I never could have reached before?

Is the measure of skill the esteem of others?
If it sells, then it is perforce of some value?

Salesmen are capitalism's shameful dæmons
Whose unrewarded toil props up the secret lie

If it does not rest upon your local store's shelves
And there are no TV ads, you should ignore it

Does no one buying my product mean I'm worthless?
The lie of perfect information rears its head

Does an unseen hand keep all the salemen away
Or do they do the decide to stay away on their own?

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