I wrote this riddle long time ago, perhaps going on 7 years, but no one has been able to solve it. It came to me randomly on a flight crossing the Atlantic. I really don’t want to reveal it before at least one person solves it–I’d really love it if someone tried. Oh, well. C’est la vie.
The Zen Riddle
Where the worm’s first home curves like a hunchback,
When the man of the cross was unheard as a nun,
Dripped on a book, like ink running through a canal,
Are the words of one famed, three thousand years gone.
Not immortal in body, neither gentle Vesta nor brave Freyr,
Yet alive as any Gulliver, Juliet, or Arthur lost.
Be that the riddle might be hard to solve,
Western, Athenian, or even Zen to say,
The answer lies only in the soles of your own toes.
Is the answer, perhaps, mothers?
no, sorry