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Ballade of Mysteries

Ballade of Mysteries

These luminous fluttering flakes of snow
are but a whit to the utterly great
sum of suns we cannot know
in the galaxies which populate
creation. Eyes that navigate
through nights as clear as infinity
itself can’t begin to estimate
how huge it is. How small are we?

What spark made life so long ago,
fashioned nebulae ornate
as dahlias, galactic winds that blow
like blizzards, worlds that whirl, rotate,
makes astral A-bombs detonate,
made stars white, blue or burgundy,
caused all existence to inflate?
How huge it is! How small are we?

Snow swirls like moths in the streetlight glow,
hiding the heavens on this date,
a fiddling date in this riddling O,
an O no mind can penetrate,
where photons never gallop straight,
where clocks can’t tick in synchrony,
where seeming nothingness has weight.
How huge it is! How small are we?

Space seems quite pleased to isolate
us on this rock, yet aren’t we free
to feel the sun and contemplate
how huge it is? How small are we?