The garden of machines
New only one
Master gardener,
The steward
Who planted the seeds,
Spruced the eroded leaves
And replaced the ones he took.
He was not a god
This gatekeeper,
But he twisted and grew the presence of one.
He was a black smith.
But in the Garden of Machines,
He told the stories of greatness
And of past great machines, and he created
The mystery of the Soil. He spoke like a god,
and manipulated water and objects like a god;
He prevented erosion in the garden
And worry; and he produced energy
And gave it to the garden when it felt most weary
And weathered.
And one day,
Like a human,
He died in the garden.
And no single plant knew how
A God could die.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem