The Wrong Question

When we ponder on our nature

What do we envision?

When we shake a hand

The sentimentalism of trust

Must we then find beauty in our vulnerability

Or find beauty in our art

Or do we find it everywhere

Encompassed by acting along with our hearts

In the divided periods of silence that create a symphony

We are inspired to love

To caress a dove

And refrain from anger

We avoid the rumbling thunder of violence

Discipline we call it

Sit then we do and contemplate

What is it that makes us human?

This beckons for language to conjure a potion of beautiful analogies

Poets heads turn at the murmur of this question even under the most timid of voices

Rejoice we do when we hear an answer

And today our cushion of appealing response is threatened

We ask the wrong question

What is it that makes us human?

Geneticist’s perk up as hairs on an arm upon breath in their ear

Sear the crust of the question

Lock in the answer

Imprison it

Because we should learn to ask a better questions

Algorithms can compose

Replicate, paint and sing

Ring our alarm bells it does

So we should come to ask instead

What is it that makes us human? No.

Humans – what is it that we make?

Then we will be reminded of the poetic origin

As magicians we pluck meaning from the air

We hide it in our fists

And open them up to share

We are conductors to an infinitely long orchestra

Strings, wind and pianos harmonise because we chose to put them in that order

Because we chose to listen to how things work

So our dropped chins can raise and we stand an inch taller

As we move into times where our creativity is challenged

True we shouldn’t ignore what composes us

Although remember that is was what we created initially that we should continue to discuss

Then we won’t make the grand mistake

If we go on to ask the right question

Humans, what is it that we make?