What it says, it cannot see,
Trapped in the sound of its poetry.
No matter how much I want
To know, my thinking is ignorant.
Something beyond us loves—
This is what religion proves,
When truth, as beauty, makes us feel
Partial things we see are real—
Beauty, which, if ever we see,
Is translated into poetry,
The milky all and the watery all
In a star beside a waterfall.
Beauty, in a second beauty, consists,
In the same way truth in beauty exists,
When beauty drops dreamily into sound.
When I tried to see beauty, I found
Nothing in this poetry, proving it weak
And ignorant. Truth doesn’t speak.
I drag the statue to the ground,
In obedience to my poem’s sound;
I look, up close, at the beautiful head,
Resembling a wrinkled cry, instead.
My poem, I heard, is ignorant and weak,
Ending the moment it started to speak.