To sit back, and behold the universe, she of old
her magnificence dwarfed, by only her silence
a cold calm it is, a true death to fantasies
to her is anger unknown, and pretense a disease
she makes no claims, of a past of yore
no books, no bones, no ancient folklore
She is at once wide awake, and in a deep sleep
but she has no dreams, just stars in streams
Millions of burning giants, tumbling around in a race
thrown apart and hurtling radiantly through space
But even with vast and glorious citizens
naively do we pretend a grasp of her essence
some content to accuse a creator for her presence
she treats our illusions with no derision
she destroys with ease, what took her millenia to create
but nothing is destroyed, just reshaped, in a new fate
a picture of modesty is the Universe so immense
she abhors all show, avoids all pretense
not a word does she speak, nor a glance too intense
She feigns no knowledge of her timeless existence
Often does one wonder, what plans she foments
but she has no motive, nor desires that her torment
All one can truly say, is that she feels no bias
She wanted to see herself, so she tried us.
But here we sit in arrogance, calling her just a creation
when what she really is, is endless, an eternal congregation
of stars and novas and pulsars and a billion others
She invites us to look, to look ever further
to see the nothing, and the everything all together.