It's strange that cool calculators
Juggling with digits infinite,
Crave for yet another plunge
In the abyss of naught absolute.**
Perchance the plight is anticipated
Of such intelligence in heat,
For dare heat creep into ordered crystals
Or order prevail in chaotic fumes?
Surely heaven is frost and hell fire,
And God so cool and intelligent
That in the beginning He couldn't be.
Yet if in the beginning He was
In the throes of the Big Bang ordained
By fire, Almighty and supreme,
Then intelligent He couldn't have been
Ere He cooled down and crystallized.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem