FIVE mites of monads dwelt in a round drop
That twinkled on a leaf by a pool in the sun.
To the naked eye they lived invisible;
Specks, for a world of whom the empty shell
Of a mustard-seed had been a hollow sky.
One was a meditative monad, called a sage;
And, shrinking all his mind within, he thought:
'Tradition, handed down for hours and hours,
Tells that our globe, this quivering crystal world,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem