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,
For the galaxy.
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;
The boundless energy
Which could not be tamed.