Not easy in another than my mother tongue, Harper. May be a little bit contaminated with the satire I am fed with on a daily basis, it stays ambiguous till the end.

In chaos alone beauty seldom flourishes

It is structure that our wonder nourishes

The story, harmony, phrasing and form

Make a sonata out of a storm

But order alone is the death of creation

It needs chaos to give us a true sensation

Of the fullness of life beriddled with puzzles

Like ‘is it the whoozle that whozzles or whuzzles?’

Friend of life and beauty and foe of spoilers of life and beauty. Golden marriage. Grandfather. Pianist and micro poet. Dutch, European.

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