It spanned eons of memories and times,
Spiraled in ways, to trek where time would end,
The quest of sages, or of bards, in rimes,
As are desires, with which fools would contend;
It's glory lies in every bud that blooms;
In every heart that passionately beats;
In awe, the mind, that when ecstatic, zooms,
It stirred to pursue dreams of greater feats;
And yet, its true nature remained unknown,
It's one or both of many things it's called;
The veil of doubt that so thickly has grown,
No longer shrouds, but even have it walled;
.....Though uncertain, how grandly to explain,
.....The mystery's grandeur seems quite certain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem