When one looks into the sun, what will they find there, how will it run? Will they be a reflection, a mirror of light? Or some darker thing, to stir up an image of fright? Kill the soul or save it so, that later it may reapprise and grow? Or leave it be and let it wake, and in its own image shall it bake? Did the chicken hatch before the egg, or was the egg the one that begger? To whome do i owe my lovely right, to be seen, to see my tainted sight? ....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem