Which question? That is the question—
which to ask, to whom, how and why.
Those which have ready answers
are immaterial, dry;
those that we can’t know before we ask
transcend the question mark
and ascend to the exclamation mark,
magnificent and stark. Cry,
for weeping is the expulsion
of confusion, a profusion
of prayers made liquid
and of fear made viscous,
melted queries gliding down
like beeswax on candle.
It is the not knowing
that we have to know.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem