Then no river, no ocean born
But creast of the weave touching the apex of the sky
Then no stars or the sun born
But a morning flying crossing over the horizon
Then no trees or bluish grove
But a boat made of leaf moving towards the eternal point
Then no language, no prosody, alphabets, words
But poet engaged composing the first poem.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem