The water in the glass awaits,
And you long to fully define it,
You ask but the eternal question:
Half empty or half full?
Your efforts vanish in vain,
And you cannot help but stare
At how this meaningless muse
Can cause you such nightmares.
All day, you sit and wonder,
Never to once break through.
You think and you think until
You question your very question.
Still, as much as you do try,
The truth, each time, eludes you.
The answer, after all, must depend
On which way the water should go.
In or out, or up or down?
Without whispers and hints,
Or mystic writers’ insights,
This, you may never know.
So you sit and you wonder,
Staring with unbroken confidence,
At a muse that only reflects you,
And now perhaps, you finally see.
Maybe the water was never there,
And the glass, but your vessel.
Maybe you only saw what you wanted,
Yet your shadow never found the light.
There was wonder in not knowing, you see,
More pure than any truth you sought.
And you realise that the nightmare here
Was not the question, but only thought.
Paradox in hand and halfway content,
You somehow vanish into the crowds.
The glass is both empty and full now,
And Schrödinger would be proud.