While my heart worships its muse once again
a mud-island rises from a deeply troubled lake…
Past, present, or future? It’s all one in the end;
I live in my own time, denying everything.
What is poetry without being? Material!
And being without poetry – material unformed.
Like one touched by the seven fingers of hell;
his faith is lost, it never does return.
I heard the silent word, with eyes enflamed,
and like reality, it did strike my fancy:
that the Lord is mighty, and I think defenseless,
rather only my rotten soul is endless.
And in my adult gene-helix lives the child,
the Body and Soul Universe of Poetry.