I don't know why they call it Original Sin:
There's nothing original in any sin.
They all wear peacock feathers.
Forbidding Adam and Eve self-knowledge, now that was Evil.
But not original.
We do it all the time:we do it to ourselves,
And peacock-proud to be so weathered!
It's the only time we get to call the bluff of priests
And get the feeling of being gods, make up our own minds
Between the stuff of good and evil,
Fluff up ourselves in the godly semblance
Of being original...
Though we only play at being good and evil.
We like to strut our stuff,
And not be told by God-fearing, craven fathers
When Their enough is Our enough.
They frown, of course, on the magic of any freedom.
But we are raven.
They will find themselves out soon enough.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem