A puppet’s never sorry,
it just lies there, like a smiling corpse: 
it is not dead, nor is it alive,
an imitation of life -
I wonder what it must be like
to feel empty inside,
I guess that’s why a puppet’s
never sorry.

There is a humble stage
and an old curtain with dusty ropes,
but you say: “never mind the dirt,
practice your art with self-discipline,
practice your art in the middle of the dirt:
you can only keep learning with a humble heart”.

Can I animate an inanimate object,
insufflate life into a stiff toy?
From the edge of the stage
I conduct each performance
and each time, how I learn and I grow,
while the puppet’s dead when I am not there,
backstage, where it’s dark and there’s a damp smell -
Rats scratch the box where the creature languishes,
indifferent in its inert world.

I guess that’s why a puppet’s never sorry.