The chariot above the clouds
drawn by gold bridled steeds
and reins of sturdy leather formed
flies on with utmost speed
Who is the driver of this coach
and fashioned its fine form;
why is it headed for the blue
of harsh galactic storms?
Great kings of old have yearned to touch
and yet have been denied
what's granted to a lonely soul
to glory and to ride
My soul is ever upward bound
it soars toward the flight
of that great chariot of love
that pierces endless night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
My soul is ever upward bound it soars toward the flight of that great chariot of love that pierces endless night. A lovely poem.