Since we've no idea how the world gets formed;
Surprising to find we'd elucidate the end?
Pile assumption on assumption, till something gets born
Between death, redemption and original sin.
Theories abound on how to meet the maker,
Assuming he'd ever care to tip his hat;
Every talking head seems to have his own theory,
But it's all just more eschatological scat.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem