I must be among the lesser gods,
To judge by the handiwork of my days:
My hours still trapped in marble blocks,
Bathing in the morning rays.
I must seem to sit and stare at rocks
To idle passers-by:
But I listen to the bathers talk,
And use the chisel of my eye.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
My hours still trapped in marble blocks. Bathing in the memories of rays values more and such bath signifies to have bath in wisdom of God. Wisdom is light and this carries rays. Listening to the talk of the bathers amaze mind. Wisely penned deep and perceptive poem shared here...10
I find that my best poetry seems to come from a playful spirit ~ when I'm just playing and amusing myself with the musicality of language and syntax, vowel sounds and consonants, yet also entertaining a profound idea, with no other care in the world but my music. Let the bills take care of themselves (at least for this hour) when there is a symphony resounding all about me, and I find myself embedded in the cosmic orchestra, one of its most quixotic and peculiar instruments. I become possessed! I must translate! ! ! Thank you for commenting. :)