We are the leaden statues,
Who creak the world with comings and goings.
Fate lies ponderous beneath our feet,
Our will of basalt, grip of iron.
Our pasts rise high, like a mountain range
That obscures well the clouded future;
They say we're divine, the offspring of gods-
Or else a rust, on worn-out sutures.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
... this is what I love 'bout yer poems! ... makes me ponder, from the soul... I like it.