A castle he built in a wild place
Away from the belabouring tongues of eparchy
A fine castle of sticks and dirt;
An epicurean retreat
Not a scintilla of care
Self-pity he knows naught of
Conscious only of the soughing wind;
Nature’s own evensong
Conscious only of the river flow;
A bemusing doxology
Conscious only of the rustling leaves;
A perfect synod
Here, in Her tree school of epistemology
Canticles he writes to Her
At versifying watery edge
And sings to Her from his truth-told consciousness
His heart
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem