If the Sky still looks pure
                                      and sacred,
It is not because we can see it
As the blue gate to Infinity,
To the Mystery, and beyond.

Pure and sacred is the Sky
                                      because
It still can remember
How the first Apple tree,
Pregnant with the thirst for Truth,
Yet blissfully smiling
With the glory of Doubt,
Began to bloom.

The Sky is sacred,
                             is pure,
Because it still remembers
How the first Tiller,
In his trance of triumph,
Reverently laid
A sheaf of the untasted golden Wheat
On the lap of his expectant mate
To be blessed by her sagacious mouth.

But the Mother of Thought,
                                      the Earth,
Though not decrepitly forgetful,
Cannot remember anything,
Because the mirror of her memory
                                      is darkened
With the thick layers of tortured Hopes
And the blood of unyielding Doubts.