The knowers of wisdom
We think we know what wisdom is.
Those who know remain silent,
Humble like a fruit-ladened tree;
Their words few,
Their followers fewer,
Their hearts large,
As large as the oceans,
All there to give
Never to stint.
Like shooting stars
They glide across the skies of our lives.
Catch them, whoever can
For they are the embellishers of our souls
The inexhaustible founts of wisdom.
Reapers are few
And far between.
Prisoners to the senses
We live like fated flies
In the webs of ignorance,
Reluctant to be reprieved.
Like poppy eaters
We loiter aimlessly in sweet delusion.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nicely written piece. I also tend to believe that the ones with the most knowledge are the ones who speak the least.