Here the Atheist' harp plays.
Played with antiquated hands.
Even with eyes wide open
scrutinizing the colossal landscape.
No samaritan ceased my harmonius melody.
Where lack of knowing compells belief.
To add the weight on the left of an axis,
pushing me not closer to Lucifer but,
to a sudden ponder,
a sudden wonder of what lies beyond square one.
The mouth of circumstance spits
into the eyes of fair play,
into the heart of your soul,
and so we are left to explore
where we are supposed to...
and nothing more
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem