We make of God
What we want
And speak
In hundred voices
We are uncouth actors
In the theatre
Of the absurd
Our voices rise and fall
God looks on
In silence
Perfect being
Misses nothing
Desires nothing
Speaks nothing
Can neither move
Nor act
Movement needs space
It is all occupied
Action needs a goal
He has none to reach
A motionless stasis
He is neither for Himself
Nor for you
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem