Out of the mouths
Of fountains
Came the
Measurable truth;
Century flowed
And swept over
The lowest
Gathered granules
On its way to glory.
Cursed with a cure
For all ills,
But destined
For great use,
It stuck for an
Address to rest its
Weight when
Accidentally washing
Up against ours,
And obligingly,
Dragged with it
The grit that would
Replace our grist.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem