Because the orbit of my life subserves
A potter's wheel or roulette,
Need I suppose a motive and a root?
Spinner or turner, he who breeds movement,
Traps time and is trapped by its own rhythm;
Trips chance and is tripped by its very spin.
Maker or gambler, he who animates
The geometry of shapes returning,
Grows giddy in the number-spawning matrix
And rues the error of his gaming.
Potter or punter, he who breaks the wheel,
Breaks order and is broken into shards,
While scattered marbles run like stars unchained.
Do not contest the Season's Reason.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem