Of the unknown we can say nothing,
nothing of authority, nothing of any accuracy,
nothing and be convinced of its verity.
Of Faith we can say little except that it exists,
except that it persists in the snarling
face of fact.
Of fear we can say much, a spur of faith,
the constant guide, the chink in the mail,
the inner enemy.
In all we speak but words,
they trip from hobbled mouth worms
unstilled by a nameless grace.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem