There are many branches to knowledge,
They smash and crash as if in the winds.
So many wise thoughts are born from within,
Like children of the parent and darts from their thrower.
We are to die, and then to live with knowing itself,
Where the trees grow fully, and the water is so pure.
My acts are numbers, and my numbers are acts,
We still confer with the angelic men who strive along time.
Knowledge seeps into the soul like streams of ice,
Knowing me is concealing the truth, knowing is just.
My understanding clung to the wall of gold and silver,
It shined and outshone its wearer, like a solvent or religion.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem