When time,

Which ends with no one suicide,

Nurtures a curious race, who

Having turned their genius to seeing,

Are beckoned by the vast variety of stars,

There shall be a soft, plaintive, note

Singing across the twisting eddies of distance.

In joy and relief

They will respond,

Making haste to follow this beacon,

In hope of finding their culture's mate.

With an art untested any time before,

They embark

For the galaxy.

When time,

Which one wound heals,

Allows a tear to fall

Where grief was but a ghost,

It shall become clear why no response was heard

When they lifted forth their voice

In blissful amity.

For having found the plastic source

In orbit round a dusty ball...

The first footsteps in centuries

Impress on ashes such a loss,

While in a silver clutch

The burnt remains of a poet's soul

Tell something of the tragedy:

That greed engendered charity;

That truth required falsity;

And oh,

The boundless energy

Which could not be tamed.

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