In the egg

We live in the Egg

We live in the Egg

We have covered the inside wall of the shell with dirty drawings

and the christian names of our enemies

We are being hatched

Whoever is hatching us is hatching our pencils as well

Set free from the Egg one day, at once we shall draw a picture

of whoever is hatching us

We assume that we're being hatched

We imagine some good natured fowl and write school essays about the colour

and creed of the hen that is hatching us

When shall we break the shell?

Our prophets inside the Egg, for a middling salary, argue about

the period of incubation

The posit a day called "X"

Out of boredom and genuine need, we have invented incubators

We are much concerned about our offspring inside the Egg

We should be glad to recommend our patent to whom looks after us

But we have a room full of hardheads, senile chimps, polyglot embryos

chatter all day and even discuss their dreams

But what if we're not being hatched?

What if the shell will never break, if the horizon is only that of

our scribbles, and always will be?

We hope that we're being hatched

Even if we only talk of hatching there remains the fear

that someone outside the shellwill feel hungry

and crack us into the frying pan with a pinch of salt

What then my brethren inside the Egg?