In the beginning, they were flung
Into a million million galaxies,
Not haphazardly, but myriad points
Adorning an endless tapestry
Of time and space and matter,
A grandeur so complex, so vast
That we often see it only
As sublime impersonal chaos.
The stellar dance of matter and mass,
Of fission and fusion,
Of flares and plasma
And perpetual nuclear explosions,
Hydrogen transforming into helium,
Burning through tons of matter
In a matter of moments,
Profligate as a prodigal
Whose father’s corpse has not yet cooled.
Herein lie deep secrets of creation.
Was this the power that intoxicated
The son of the morning
When he rose up to wage
His revolutionary war?
Did he begrudge the wastefulness
Of these universe-shaping forces
Harnessed for the viewing pleasure
Of tiny creatures
On a tiny planet
Far from the Center of things?
No comments:
Post a Comment