What am I, speaks not, about what I've been,
And what I'll be, as fools deemed, wasting time,
I could be quark, not known, and never seen,
An errant gene, or quite the spark sublime.
But I, of simian spores, bearing my shame,
Swinging through trees, might for a better fate,
Choose, that ethereal be, whence I came,
And for choosing, chose God whom to relate.
I am, what I am, life that God protects,
Breath from God's nostrils, at creation's peak;
Why should I think otherwise, to prospects
That are bleak, and make myself a wreck?
........All that I said, I doubt not to a nil,
........Except to say, if God has a nostril.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem