Restless for the face of God,
Self-conscious of our rise from sod;
Life cannot be so cold, perverse,
Mere pond scum on the fractious earth;
Life cannot be so demeaning
That we awake without meaning;
We hear the echo of our thoughts
Back from space probes we have wrought;
An empty ping that we've contrived
In search of someone else alive;
In the bubble universe
That inflates without reverse,
As all the blazing stars burn out,
We're left in darkness with our doubts?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem