To land lovers that build from their enthusiasms
Islands of god, continents of science and mountains of nationality
Thinking thereby to have progressed
Not realizing in their impertinence
That though their eyes and lungs do not attune
To darkened life beneath the froth of sea
That though through all the work of magic ages,
Scale turned to skin and gill to tongue
To frame and shelter incandescence:
Bottled lightning, song in clay. That though this be the case,
All certitude is fiction. Even the falcon
Set like a diamond in the ceiling of the sky
Cannot escape the fundamental truth of nature,
That not a soul from rim to rim
Of the entire universe
Has found a peace of solid permanence.
That every single speck of time exists
On ephemeral displays of Ocean:
There never was a ship whose force or motion
Could save it from its wreck.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem