I feel poetry, any fine art, is inadequate:
The moment abounds with so many dimensions -
Senses, almost all of them, are busy
Engaged with their prey,
Forms of play, of aspects of life,
So many spring on all sides,
The substance of them all
Constitute the stuff of life
At this moment.
No poem ever can come
A galaxy-distance near
The heart of the matter
Of this moment of life.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem