All the crowd is moving, each soul with its rhythm;
The solitary moon with its constellations, the lonely star,
Or a pulsar light-years distant—
All the clouds and the deserted ones,
All the streams and the lonely brook in a dark, dense woodland,
All the oceans and the silent spring;
All, and all—nothing solitary—
Moving slow or fast, at will or not,
Towards the same goal, fixed and destined.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem