"Let the living creature lie,
Mortal, guilty, but to me
The entirely beautiful."
Verse has small value in our Unisphere,
nor is it fit for windy revelation.
It cannot legislate less taxing fears;
it cannot make us, several, a nation.
Enumerator of our sins and dreams,
it pens its cryptic numbers, and it sings,
a little quaintly, of the ways of love.
(It seems of little use for lesser things.)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem