There is a myth, long forgotten, of a centaur
Who came from a barren planet to taste
Potato chips, dandelions and whatnot.
Before he lost his conscience in the slums of
A city with the name too banal to remember
The residents didn’t know what to do
With their fingers, toes, tongues and ears.
He told them that history was pure refund,
That animals had the right to forgive,
That dreams belonged to the pool in the middle
Of Saturn, that all the Martians were stark mad,
He told them some other nonsense too.
There are years and centuries inaccessible to the wise.