Oh mighty walls of Constantinople, like bread, guarded by the Marmara lake, like a sea of cream, layer upon layer of defense, like an onion red, shield and spear, like mushroom, chanterelle, oh redeem, the Norman warrior from castle garden with cauliflower trees, parsil, rivers of broth, oh heart of war and peace.
Earth is like a pizza, is it not? Or is it like a tomato, round? Are the planets scattered randomly like grated cheese, or what? Behold the sky, oh humans, what can be found?
As they descended from the misty hills, bearded thunder gods with skin white like dough, blood like tomato sauce, the power of mozzarella, onion and banana.
The cradle of civilization, fair Greece, your yoghurt, tomatoes, each tasty little piece, you rose against the Ottomans in Peloponnese, with cucumber, garlic and feta cheese.
On distant spagetti-clad earth,
the autumns of bell pepper yellow and red,
the many winters of crème fraîche that once lay ahead,
the springs of cucumber and rebirth.
This bread which warm is,
on black Königsberg plate,
a drop from an old barrel of spicy barbeque sauce,
when the hour is late.
Flour spreading like wild geese,
over Okinawa in the spring morning,
distant clouds of baking powder in the breeze,
beer, corn starch and harmony is dawning.
On the shores of Butternut Squash,
onion and garlic, the poor and the posh,
and a monsoon of coconut milk,
white like Genghis Khan’s silk.
On a black plate,
one tortilla bread,
to remind us of