Stars that shine in the absence of light,
Define the presence of light in those distant places.
Some are too far, others too near,
Ours is just right, for us at least.
Consider, that on those bodies,
Those that reflect,
Only perceivable by machines,
Our star is seen as we see theirs.
Consider, that on those bodies,
Those that are barren,
Only witnessed by us,
Our star is never seen,
As we see theirs,
As there are none to see it.
Consider, that human history,
Is seen to the universe,
As we see those bodies:
Imperceptible, tiny, negligible.
Consider, that the universe,
Shares more with the atoms,
On our fingers, than it does,
With the trees, and the roads,
The houses, and the great buildings,
Sheathed in glass.
The endless structures of life,
Of particles and cells,
So minuscule and then infinite,
Only perceivable by machines,
Mimic the great expanse,
With greater faith than the cry,
Of an infant, or the embrace,
Of a loved one, or even the machines
By which we view those structures,
And that expanse.
For the stars that shine,
In the absence of light,
Shine only for us, and us alone,
For life is the grand betrayer of the universe,
And we are it’s conspirators,
Hiding in the shadows of solidarity,
Existing between the incomprehensible:
The incomprehensibly great,
The incomprehensibly small,
Defining itself, destroying itself,
Aching to be seen by those bodies,
And those stars,
As they are seen.
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