The undying Artificer with His holy hand
Formed a lump of clay into living figurine,
Human Being, by name of its mortal brand.
It fell into this earth from heavenly shrine.
The creature of clay packed the empty earth
With its disparate footsteps, singular self
And grew into Races, dyed in Colour of birth.
It drenched itself in particles of lethal pelf.
Humans with a secular Name exist, expire.
Few entities of their finest feats and fame
Enlighten this earth. Yet they are, are, are
Only a lump of clay with a transient name.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem