Is it he who gave me breath, he who gave Homer?
How can I not muster his lyrical prowess?
For tired eons have made my wits lumbered
And educated me into slavish all-roundedness.
Is it He who gave me suck, He who gave Mozart?
How can I not attain his luscious harmonies?
Spanning time as soothing loud whispers,
Drawn hurriedly from the lips of white Nephilims.
Is it He who gave me sight, He who gave Einstein?
How can I not with him joust?
Seeing I bear no colored-luddites' claims,
Which ages after ages have doused.
I have for centuries darkened the father of lights
As the ally of the west; His back to the East,
Burning one with coal; preserving the other in ice,
Baring one on his scalp; cladding Tom as he creased.
How can the divine be mundane?
Or the unspeckled wear the smearing grin
Of arrogant color disdain,
Unworthy of one impeccably sterling.
For He gave all to the East as to the West
Sparkling stars and startling clouds
It matters not where I was made;
But the way I use all that He gave.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem