The Pragmatic Awe Poem by Mohsen Zohrab Beigi

Innumerable gleaming stages left in fog,
Just as an Awe of pastoral plateau hails to fall,
Then God's dusky dust blankets my head,
As heard that my shadow chilled.

His endless burgeoning being is battered beneath the bleeding scythe,
As it said so: drinks it up, for too much it's out of sight,
Then, my nebulous words wrinkle to alack,
For that bid, our Lord dresses in black,

All that I've got, all that I've seen,
All that I've needed, all that I've been,
Tortured in the field of truth, concealed with massive mud,
And I am dumb to tell how I can drink this cup of woe.