With a static hub
even the spokes of time
cannot reminisce.
Truth can be rendered
only in motion.
Hence O' traveller,
march along, march along.
It's a sin to stop
and sayI've arrived.
From the hub
the spokes radiate
to attain a celestial form
where truth neither dawns
nor sets,
but flourishes
when revolving
to paint a trail.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem