I The problem
In the mirror it is trapped:
the solitary soul not easily unwrapped;
its universal juice, reluctant to be tapped,
when pressed provides a sorely needed sap
of poetry and useful things like that.
II The crime
I thought it best, as if I need but rhyme
to indicate the truth, to tell about the time
humanity emerged out of the slime
and saw the upward path it sought to climb
and found too late its orphaned soul- the crime!
III What now?
Whom to punish? Who gets the dreadful blame?
Do we need a gun? At whom to aim?
Or rather ask the slime, our single seed:
What did we leave in you? What do we need?