I think, of all the thoughts I’ve had, that this is sadder by far than most:
That some brilliance, some rhyme, some wisdom, and much of fear,
Is lost to silence, or the echoes of the mind- its host
Sought audience too far afield, too distant from the wellspring, too furthest from the shore
To hear from whence it sprang.
The great swirling vortices of creation, unseen but by in parts so small they fit
In small caverns of curved bone, dimly lit;
Cathedrals framed by iris iridescent,
Eyes risking ere’ their deaths descent,
To muscle upward and pierce the beaming sun,
A billion sparks, a billion glories,
Celestial circles evolving terrestrial stories,
Forgotten and lamented by no one.
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Far too many poems that will never be read, or enjoyed as they should’ve been because they were originally written in a different language. It’s not always when translating a poem works successfully.
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Yes, I criticize poems so rarely, because all poems- all of language really- are translations. The deeper fires burning in our depths come forth as mere lexical vapors. Some bonfires past, when come upon from far away in space or time, are trailing wisps of former glories.
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