Larger than spiral galaxies,
Able to comprehend that which is smaller than atoms,
You made us,
But babes,
We have yet to understand,
The works we will make,
For you,
And the words we will sing,
Our infant dancing,
Though beautiful in all its tumbling emotion,
Is nothing compared,
To the whirling,
Of our later years,
A day approaches,
When we will grow,
In all directions,
And remember with fondness,
The days before we could fly,
When walking
Upon the dust of one planet,
Was our only option,
And our flimsy wrappings,
Of main importance
We will laugh,
At our present preoccupations,
With silk or cotton,
3 or 5 inches,
Purple or go ****,
Yet you still give us what we wish,
Like a Father to his toddling child,
Drooling over a sweet.