We who would be poets write for love.
Just as every other living being
Sifts through vast and complex fragments of
Infinity, so near, yet vaguely fleeing,
We, too, seek in rhythmic thought, that love
That stirs the universe, the spirit freeing.
Every creature reaches out to blend
In substance, with this one desired end--
Insects, dancing through the sunlit grass,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem