Between ourselves and the Gods
there is a void
so wide, so drop-off deep-
mountains on mountain stacked
can't succeed to fill.
Between ourselves and the Truth
interposes
an obfuscating maze-
an all-but-endless hall
called the material.
Between ourselves and the poem
there is a page
so blank, so white so long
that glyph by glyph
we undertake to fill.
Labor, Art, Grace-
these are the corkscrews given
all men by Dominion
to pick and plunder these
august mysteries.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
great philosophical writing. good meaning and common rhythm of the poem. I like it. Keep it up.