SLICE

As tasteless as ever and quite delicious
as if it is indeed a meal for the god.
I wonder would god be 'nough superstitious
to think that there are things as my blood.

I foresaw a history blinded by meaning
and all of its shadows
and, boy!, would I dare say
that all answers together are questioned screening
of the true faces of what's our today.

And light as devoured from its language translates
thoughts that we think it should show us in shadow
and I think that I see ending of all our debates
just at the edge of every color.

And spring I do see debating with meadow
as flowering questions emptiness crown
and answers clear to me are given in odor
'though they may be winter in its sun-scent gown.

And summer invites me to the party of season
with slice of a meal known as this light
giving me everything but one slice of a reason
known to an autumn and each forgotten night.

And if I wake up from this one to daylight
not knowing a thing and remembering poem
starting with "As tasteless as ever and quite..." ...
Would I be familiar to all that is (not) known?