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?’