Of all the matter that we can see,
And of more that is dark instead,
Where light loses its fight, Endlessly,
Bound to and of itself until it bleeds,
And for its blood this light shines red,

Of all the matter that we can know,
And of the rest that goes untouched,
Does here atop what is not yet below,
By where right goes furthest; and yet left more so,
That to a life a thought can clutch,

Four percent of all that there is,
Only four percent of it all,  
Is made of what lets life live,
Is made of the tangible clues that it gives,
And the ratio thereafter is small,

A family now resides here,
Together, equally, crowded, alone,
Sailing through the air,
Never sure and unprepared,
It's good to see you, Welcome Home,