I tootle the way mathematics is run,
quite on a guitar I pull the strings,
on a glass of milk from the heavens and a memory bun,
to recall the spirits spinning heavens among many nuns,
There is a sudden reproach that God is dead,
Silence settles dense fog into haze and no one is idiotic,
as it seems the lapping fun,
Hitler had cursed the math of the God,
With plenty of bodies uncountable and devoured by hell,
For whom tolls the bell?
Silvery grey matter of the brain forms patterns,
But all the Mathematics is undone.
I exist therefore I am,
Mathematics claims another feather in the universe’s cap,
And a bizarre silence fell.