Whilst faced with dearth do we recall
The sudden tendency to pray
A prayer wishing for mere miracles
That from privation we may be spared.
And what kind, oh, one might ask,
Of miracle do you ask of?
The kind which cleanse the skin of lepers
Or make the cripple walk?
Are we, in truth, in search of miracles,
Or is magic what we want?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem