Who is the boxer really hitting?
Where are the birch trees marching so white and long?
And to whom does the gull bear his chest when circling in the morning mist?

If buildings' soft groans are words, what does the elevator say?
When the trains rumble under the street what is the city hungry for?
And if the city is hungry for love, then why is mine wasted?

Where does my body end and the air begin?
How am I so calm all day when all the time I spend life ?
And is it the mission of the young to torture us with their beauty?

How do friends, not yet, but to be, know each other?
What is more fearful than ending and more awful than beginning?
And how do you know, at last, that you have made your point?

Who screams louder, the newborn or the man on his death bed?
After hard work, why do I suffer twice in soreness?
And just what do the legs think of the runner?

What is the reflection in the puddle repeating?
Are the stars laughing at us for our jealously of birds?
And just who who gave the absurd parrot the brightest feathers?

Who is daft enough to forget the shivering grass ?
Who is the dead grass waving at when it shudders in winter’s winds?
And where is the fire that has burned longest?

Where is the book to teach me to read faces?
Why are men in rags shunned when they know many things?
And just who sleeps easy on this hard earth?

How do the storm clouds like my yellow rain coat?
How many thunderstorms have past me over in sleep?
And did their electric flashes light my dreams?

Where do memories polish their daggers?
If winners never quit how can they ever arrive?
And how many miles do I need to run to, at last, get away ?

Do idling engines do the devil's work?
How heavy is the sadness of the commuters?
And where is the strong man who can lift that weight?

Do birds get bored with flying so much?
Do crocuses race each other to be the first up and bloomed?
And if in winter the earth sleeps, is spring the groggy season?

Who has enough heart to lick the wounds of dogs?
Where are the children barefoot and running without fear of cut feet?
And where is that heaven they promise?

Why number the days and years when the sky has made each a color?
How many days of sun and rain are under the skin of the orange?
And what is the flavor of sunlight: sweet or citrus?

What does the man with no legs hate more than the pageant of spring?
What has made high noon so angry at the asphalt?
And how quiet can it ever be with this heart beating?

What good are photographs of the dead and unremembered?
Can children of the refrigerator age know the value of ice?
And where are shadows of dawn stretching off too?

Do unread books purse their lips?
Do tops in heaven spin forever?
And are lost eye lashes wanna-be tears?

How can I ask so many questions?
Why did time so swiftly beat its wings and feathers?

And did the man with all the answers die of laughter or tears?

These are my questions. I got the idea for this poem from Pablo Neruda's Book of Questions a group of short poems in the form of questions.