Beautiful fingers are not a proof true
Of symphony, of charity, of some virtue.
No doubt, but they themselves have such effect
That they can cress heart's strings so perfect.
They create music without any touch
That no flute, mandolin, pyre produce such.
Fingers's scene is itself a great charity
That diminish confusion, create clarity.
Chaos seems to be between these fingers
And of endless peace they are harbingers.
Virtue kisses these fingers day and night
For heart's dark cave, they are candles of light.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem