A young man tipped me with this poem he wrote, telling me I'd inspired him. I hope he doesn't mind my sharing it; I don't know his name. I took it upon myself to re-line-break some of it.
The Why of Art
Isn't it funny the nature of things
That one day can be a tragedy and on another
We may sing
Isn't it peculiar the things of nature
That it all works in perfect harmony
Disrupted only by malice of man
So I ask to you
What beauty is in intelligence
That it may ruin that which is devoid of computation
But in fact the beauty is in what we may create
For the nature of art, not unlike other things, is pure Beauty
But Art too is a thing of nature
So with our mind's eye we can create tragedy
Or shall we sing?
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