Will there be no end
(to these sonnets on immortality) ?
Now and then it flashes through:
A feeling I know well from youth
Perhaps it holds a primal clue
Concerning body, soul and truth.
It's clear to me my thoughts are real
But body seems like ‘not my own'
And at these times I fain to feel
my physicality on loan.
So, is this primal knowledge -
Kant's synthetic a priori?
Else is it imagined follage
Torn from page of mythic story?
We know not 'til we may tell none -
Else life could never be such fun!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem