This poem holds the portrait of me
As a god with the wonders of my pen
And I breathe, and speak words to life,
Authoring a thousand languages of men.
But then, above the skies, beyond what
The sight of men can behold, there dwells
He, the author of anything that breathes,
He, whose ink is the author of the god in me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem