Think that you may know my face
by the image up above?
Feel my soul's radiant grace
from this electronic cove? Those eyes reveal no window
through which this virtual notch
will image you my shadow
nor grant you my living watch. We have but words and voices
to share our moribund thoughts.
Gestures that bind our choices
to responses they begot. Hope you to "read" this poet?
Not while you dwell on the earth.
Images never show It;
nor give realities birth. We can't hope to know ourselves
through vanities involved
in demonstrating our wealths
of ego unresolved. The angels gave their breast bone
to cross crutches on this dove
then help'd it limp toward heaven
in quest for eternal love.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.