The wheelwright worked, as carefully,
yet so fast, as a wheel spins.
One day, someone said to him,
the centre of the wheel never moves.
Infuriated, the wheelwright worked night and day
neglecting his other work,
to prove this was not true;
he invented a wheel which was all rim;
but it still needed a hub, an axle;
but he had invented the flywheel;
his business flourished despite him.
He invented a wheel with a hollow at its centre;
but had to devise a radiating hub;
yet he had invented machinery;
his business thrived.
After many years, he sank back,
beaten by philosophy; reduced to stillness.
Around him, a huge business enterprise;
he, the hub, the axle,
the still centre.
you spin a tale so well with your centre still your words do often tell of that place unmoving real like the centre of a wheel
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I just love that last stanza.... what an analogy! t x