Dear unanswerable creator.
Oh, merciful and carelessly brutal lord.
We are alive for a moment.
We have our pleasures and despairs.
We seem but episodes in a series.
A question whispered, like gentle breathing:
Do our frolics play on in astral syndication
or are we recycled into cosmic dust?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem