In the times when there were no rains,
Because they were not yet invented,
A little red spot has found itself to exist,
On the Creator’s white garment,
Amidst the unfolding of the existence itself,
In a debated reality.
A small crimson-red spot
Formed to look like a planet itself,
Fervently pondered the reason for its existence,
Alas for us, the readers,
And especially for that little spot,
Red as a planet, and full of curiosity,
Before it could voice its purpose for being alive,
The Creator of both garments and existence itself,
In that particular reality at least,
Happened to invent the washing machines.
So after an hour of being quite naked,
That god-like being emerged
In spotless clothing,
As clean and pure as new.
Thus, the little spot,
To be interested in the reasons for its existence,
The one we sought to know,
And discover the meaning it is alive,
Ceased to be.
The scent of alpine meadows wafted by,
Seeking purpose in the existence of alpine-scented washing powder,
In a reality devoid of Alps,
Devoid of meadows,
And words to describe them all.
But that is the story for another time,
As for today,
We mourn crimson-red,
That ceased to exist
During its very creation.