Is there even anything that’s real?
From the rising of the sun to the ceasing of a gale
The different strokes of a pencil mark a man
The different tones of a pencil can change the bend
From the fiercest to the timid
The coldest to it humid
The strongest can fall and the weakest rise
The softest will call and all evil dies
Is our destiny decided upon a pencil?
Like the future of our ancestor
A painting might be nothing
But the painted is
A body might be nothing
But the spirit is
Is this world what it is?
Or another one going to cease
An earth littered with beast
Or another worlds feast
There is more we do not know
And many of which we can’t follow
Much we haven’t seen
And places we haven’t been
Who are we then to say we know our past
When all we uncovered are fossils in dust
Who are we then to determine our future?
When soon we like the plants might just wither
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
Knowledge, beneficial, but sometimes comes with a price, A captivating write! ; D