Poets can hint at the inner kingdom of things.
They can mimic its music, textures and colours.
Yet it's essence, akin to the Platonic realms
Of Forms, alas, always eludes them. O it's like
Chasing dreams! That's why we require symbols and myths
To guide us. The sublime ways of eternity
Are beyond our grasp. All we can hope to achieve is
To capture Creation's teeming, yet fleeting, impressions
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem