Many vaunt in the Sun,
but few dance with the Moon.
Some say, Look how I run,
Others, with the stars do I swoon.

Consoled and condemned by the affirms of their peers,
many burn and burn and burn out,
                                                               for years.

In the like, the rare, due in part
to the antiquity of their soul,
during the nightly watches of the earth,
will their hearts extoll.

And of what caliber do you yourself find?
...when you exact a look, you find your merit of what kind?
Is it of them who amass bricks, ash and dust;
or to the skies do your hands ******?
Are your objects the vacuum of temporal things?
Or an allowance for thought and speech to sprout wings?

May I offer one word of request
to those who find their eyes to the ground, closest;
Look up, Look up! And see what you might behold,
by gazing past the highest heavens untold.