Space is curved.
The straight line
a Euclidian fiction.
The very fabric of space,
the skin pulled in upon itself,
Light follows this curvature.
Nor is time the heartbeat of angels,
as we once thought,
but our own shaky construct.
The galaxies that we imagine
to be real prove to be
archaic images,
things that once were.
When we look into the heavens,
we look back in time.
When the light of our star
has traveled in one vast
cosmic arc
and returned to its source,
we shall know ourselves.
In that dawning
light will fail,
the stars dim and flicker.
Time itself will falter
and the voices of angels
will be heard.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 4:08 PM UTC
Space is curved.
The straight line
a Euclidian fiction.
The very fabric of space,
the skin pulled in upon itself,
Light follows this curvature.
Nor is time the heartbeat of angels,
as we once thought,
but our own shaky construct.
The galaxies that we imagine
to be real prove to be
archaic images,
things that once were.
When we look into the heavens,
we look back in time.
When the light of our star
has traveled in one vast
cosmic arc
and returned to its source,
we shall know ourselves.
In that dawning
light will fail,
the stars dim and flicker.
Time itself will falter
and the voices of angels
will be heard.
Written in 1977.
