How can each book end the same words?
Why we know the thoughts of others,
although never heard?
Man is a genie, out of the lamp
Man is a king, but also a tramp.
How can the forest lack for a tree?
How we make due with the least of all these?
Man is a vagrant, within his soul
Man is a pageant, still on the dole.
We are the characters in all the books
We are the light if they bothered to look
We are the stray thoughts of God, it is said
We are the dream, in his vast starry bed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
So beautiful; I find myself deeply intrigued by the first lines of each stanza. A spiritual work.