If possible causes are rigid they give complaint,
Designing the universe is too late, as it is faint.
My container is hesitant for we live by pots that cook,
The light from the night-sky overwhelms like a hymnbook.
The song of life muttered only when it sang
From a singer, a really sound man or woman that rang.
To ring a solemn mystery in the ears of a parent
Judged minutes and seconds worse with involvement.
The intoxicants stay in the blood, too late,
Nobody struck a face too beaten, to investigate.
My hymns are found in the cosmos in this creation
I call the one made, the one made by completion.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem