Who pulls the boulders from the river

lamenting over them under the moon?

Who forces night to give up its stars?

Who bothers the stone-deaf mountain

with telephone calls?

Who lets the translucent carriage

wander over the surface of the lake?

Who picks the silver fruits

from the black orchards?

Why are the first signs of spring

kept in dusty museums?

Why is time ground so fine

in the clocks?

Who directed the performance 

at the end of which readers of poetry

are banished from the libraries?

But who asks these questions?

Why am I to answer them

And what will happen to me

if my answers are slightly incorrect?