Prelude: The Vorderseite Speaks
I am the front—the visible,
the pig who believes in outline.
Color clings to me like consequence:
orange, pink, blue—proof of existence.
I face the sun and call it philosophy.
I oink, therefore I am.
Everything behind me hums in graphite memory.

The Backside Replies (A Platonian Murmur)

I am your shadow, drawn in half-light.
Not imitation—continuation.
You are pigment; I am persistence.
Where your brightness ends,
I begin as whisper and remain as doubt.
Ich bin Schwein im Nachhall,
ein Gedanke aus Staub und Spiegel.

DADA Meditation on Reflection

Front says: Look!
Back says: Remember.
Both are right,
both slightly wrong.
The mirror stutters in two languages—
one made of light, one of loss.
Between them hangs a third pig,
invisible but entirely real,
the idea of oink itself.

Epistle of the Shadowline

To see oneself twice is to dissolve politely.
To smudge is divine.
Every mark on the front
casts a philosophy on the back.
What you call accident,
I call ontology in pencil.
The backside knows the truth:
art is always the ghost of its making.

Final Paradox (or How the Pig Escaped the Cave)

The reflection turns, the original blushes.
They switch places seamlessly.
Now the shadow laughs in color,
and the surface whispers in gray.
DADA nods, chewing on Plato’s robe.
We all applaud softly—
for the pig has achieved enlightenment,
and it smells faintly of crayon.