We are aware of people, tables and flowers,
we may see the Sun and the Moon and the stars,
but nobody can really explain how mindless matter
gives rise to our conscious experience.
Thus, consciousness seems to be fundamental,
the primary substance, the underlying fabric
of our fragile and mysterious existence,
which somehow constructs the brain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Consciousness is a mystery but not to itself. A thought provoking poem.