The prosperous man enjoyed life,
He possessed a superfluity of wealth,
And knowledge,
And happiness.
And at the end with a feeling of nostalgia,
He asks, “Why was I picked from the garden?”

The melancholy man lacked happiness,
He sulked in the absence of marvelous occurrences in his life,
And in his defeated state, instead of appreciating the golden glow of the sunset,
He cried because the sun went away.
And at the end with a feeling of regret,
He asks, “Why was I left to wilt?”

The hyperbolic man classified events as extraordinary,
When they were regular,
He described the clouds as the marshmallows of the sky,
When they were just condensed molecules of water,
And he called baked potatoes delicious,
When they tasted plain,
His life was empty, filled only with his playful illustrations of the world,
They were always dismissed, yet he relished in them.
And at the end with a feeling of wonder,
He asks, “Why is it that I, the greatest of all blossoms, was never picked from the garden?”

And at the end with a feeling of uncertainty,
I ask, “Why is there a garden in the first place?”