within this delicate filigree am I infinitesimal
within me is the knowing of eternity
I name time
I see space
make love, do good
if the earth were an apple, its solid mantle would be thin skin
afloat upon a juicy orb of molten flint
its biosphere faint as slime on slippery rock in a slow-moving stream
the field in which we loosely play
perhaps alone, the only ones who pose and probe and posit
arrogantly*claiming*position
wee voices in hollow vastness
within this delicate filigree
are we
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem