The pendulum swings,
swings,
swings.
It swings to its rhyme,
it swings by its whim.
It swings so precise,
it swings unseen.
All the while it mocks us,
and our futile attempts.
Attempts to understand the future,
to condescend the mass.
All the while it laughs
as it swings,
swings,
swings.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem