I'm lost in labyrinths filled with
The lamentations of angels.
The flashing signs & warnings
Evade my weary consciousness.
The spectral animals howl
In the vast desert of my soul.
In dreams I seek the curves of
Aphorisms & metaphors,
Yet I'm forever confined by
The syllogisms of straight lines.
No bold troubadour or wounded saint
Can capture Being's cryptic design;
They can only craft ornamental rhymes,
Or compose paltry hymns dipped in darkness.
No mortal artist or poet
Can trace the tortured genesis
Of the teeming realms of creation;
They can only weave frail fabrics
From the coarsest of materials.
This world's bleak limits weighs them down.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem