Words are only good for telling about
Things that aren’t really real
And so we tend to babble endlessly on
With unchecked evangelical zeal
The real stuff, beyond words, of which we can’t speak
Because languages simply can’t go there
Is the stuff that should be tickling our minds
It’s the stuff about which we should care
But we don’t care about it because we can’t talk
And make sounds that sound like we know
We’d rather talk about almost anything else
And feel that self-satisfied glow
So we write books that are much too long
Using words that don’t need to be used
When a simple paragraph or two would have been sufficient
And left the reader much less confused
And the arguments, the debates, the confrontations
Now that’s what folks really relish
We’ll take any opportunity to hear our own words
And, of course, everything must be embellished
Meanwhile there are places that are not places
Beyond both thought and words
That most of us never even try to access
Where there’s no use for nouns and verbs
Beyond the illusions and petty perceptions
Of egos that can’t be satisfied
Where there is no concept of hunger or thirst
Where the way is neither narrow nor wide
