Whenever I look at things and think about what people think of them,
I laugh like a brook cleanly splashing against a rock.
For the only hidden meaning of things
Is that they have no hidden meaning.
It’s the strangest thing of all,
Stranger than all poets’ dreams
And all philosophers’ thoughts,
That things are really what they seem to be
And there’s nothing to understand.
Yes, this is what my senses learned on their own:
Things have no meaning; they exist.
Things are the only hidden meaning of things.