Would it not be a miracle
To raise up the right hand
To forsee what was created
For the simple place of man
Becoming the undertaker for
The sorrowful lost of doubt
So simple and yet somehow
Her generation would be found out
Such an illness that consumes
The most holiness of minds
Where discretion itself lies
Beyond the most fortunate of finds
So what knowledge be left
To a well ridden arm
To face forward her doubt
And of its intuitive harm.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem