The urge in you to get the non-gettable
Is not new, it is old since the time
Of the creation, creator is no where
In his creation as this is not a dream
That from it a dreamer is inseparable
Poetry does not contain the poet, he
Pours his emotion and simply walk off
Sighing, every one would have got his
Or her creator if we found the painter in his
Painting as we find a dancer in flesh
And blood in his or her art, dancing
This is utterly blasphemous to claim
By a creation that its creator mingles
Within as it is disgraceful to say that
The sinner is contained by the sin,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The creator is vastly far, above, and beyond any containment of him in any way or form. We see a likeness of him in us and the universe declares or shed light on his abilities and wishes.