Meditation

This is how Claude AI translated my recent Russian-language poem. I have to admit that the translation is far far far more mysterious than the original.

The first won't give us away, the second won't ingest,

The third's not a friend to the latter,

But each one for others a nuisance, a pest,

With pests you no porridge can batter.

What's porridge to us - starch and water, that's it

No difference if butter's afloat,

Could all of our fritters and kebabs be quit?

Our cutlets and shashliks be wrote?

Diets spread like religions, enemies sworn

Of mayonnaise, fanatics to loathe,

Alas, after all, food's just one facet worn,

A metaphor, catochresis clothed.

To the heavenly streams we shall burst on a note

Of sizzling skillet's sonorous ring;

The first won't give us away, and the pair left

We'll stuff with some seasoning.