You think the gods have handed you the pear,
whisper their secrets to you in its juice.
The pear’s day passes, no thought of you,
and darkness spreads unhurried at its core.
For everything flows, and nothing remains.
Green softens to yellow, and bite starts to yield;
fragrance escapes and wakens your ready juices.
Proclaim what you will, the pear has its own way,
it parts from the twig and forgets the tree.
It was never in your hand, only here, where it always is.
You sigh enraptured, “It hears the gods’ voices.”
Say what you like. It will not, does not hear you.