Perhaps in a future
And far away land,
Footsteps echo on the
Well-swept flagstones.
“This is the very spot”
The reserved voice intones;
“Here were the first intuitions”
“Then came the first of many
breakthroughs”
The hushed and reverent group
Haltingly shuffles through
Scarcely daring to touch the relics.
The room holds its own breath,
Cameras flashing little lightnings,
The posed smiling faces
Courteous but distant, as if at a
Wedding or a funeral or some
Important social event.
And thus, only for a moment
The silent voice speaks again
Of dreams and of a vision
And the final conquering
The destiny having become
Everlasting and mythical.
Time drops dust motes on the placards.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem