Until the universe is still and dead,
If ever it lived as it is said,
The nested movements among the curls,
Smaller than the eye reveals,
(Tracked on plates as mystic whorls,
Tracks to follow to other reals-)
From out these nests there do explode
Parts that seek a straighter road.
Yet doomed to follow Albert’s way,
And reefs of atoms light waves sway.
Most ‘scape and fly a universe away,
Some strike and rebound,
changed but still away,
Some by eyes are bound.
These are called the Day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem