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?