To The Maker Poem by james watkin
To The Maker
Back-tracking through your spilt hands'
Quick congealing endlessness
In bright galactic trails of
Wondrous symmetric impress
Was there a sphere, a droplet
As a sapphire light that set?
From all of a jewelled valueing
Could it be picked out as yet?
- "yes! And for what would never
Out my foresight evanesce.
Blood-tears having shed for it!
And not for what merits less!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/15/2025 4:46:09 AM # 1.0.0
