In the still of dawn it lays, the vast darkness its home, at least for now. Its magnificence thrills, its mission, mystifying. It is not shy or would not glow. It seems to want to reach out to whoever is there. At once luminous and reclusive, it is hardly stealth to retreat when done. That it is dawn says little about its move as its power must lie hidden in its womb, known perhaps to none but yonder.
It boggles to ponder its goal. Yet, it is benign to come and go. Safe for tending sinister, one wonders what else the lure is. That there is though reassures. If only to mediate our angst, how else we can comprehend it seems obscure. To some though, it smirks, the tease alone, hubris. Many others would more charitable be. To our friends in it they may say we be kind. But one shudders to contemplate the snare, the gobble, worse still.
In ours that wrestles our ways, its world must seem sublime. For us to know its pains, we may struggle to study its gains. What it is, why it is here and what of it may elude us. After all, it is here again, and again. Its secrets remain hidden in its crypts it seems, no matter how often that is. Yet we must wonder what intellect so intrigues us, and so shows how much we lack. May be that would help, if only to ease our aches.
Way over there we lust to see, through a prism we see but for real. We dither to concede we live not alone. Perhaps we revel in the solitude innate in us, in which we forever lounge. Nothing seems to appease our friends, to tarry so we see the truth. Our dilemma may explain the haste in which it always appears to be. That it comes back though shows the friends they likely would be. Never mind a turbine or two that wrecks. That may be an inkling we miss. That we are not alone that lack perfection, may point the way ahead we need.
Were its aims to proclaim something, it remains for us to tell. May be it is to sire concord, or warn of overly might. The message we must make out, from just an error made. It may be so they know us more. It may be not. What we may not contend is that they have ways to know. We may wonder what needs known for so long. And query the heist or worse some worry we face. This may reassure us for now. Yet, it may indeed, portend the diligence of schema.
We venture too. The cosmic realm we claim seems minuscule, its excursions we see telling of the measureless yonder whence it comes. One wonders if we must wait for response to artistic impressions they already see, or language they may find misty. May be they already hear us. May be that is why they come, may be to help us, or may be to harm us. May be thus we must act, first to dump our doubts. Time may not be there for long.
With the many more visits we see. Something may just be imminent. It is familiar to us for actions to intensify, to wrap matters up for initiating a plan. Our friends may be more now, as another phase of the plan begins. The increase in surveillance may signal decomposition, top now sifting down, from planners to executioners. May be it is time to covet truce, and eschew smugness, and act to meet our friends.
We rancour and fight over the littlest rock. We wallow in grief over the mere. We succumb to hubris when we should demure and contemplate the signs all around us. We worry about temporal turmoil and ignore the cosmic dirge history sings. May be it is veiled vicarious learning, that we should take a cue from the celestial family. May be it is not planned pogrom, loathe not overriding love. Yet, it seems most apt we should ponder to change our ways.
They may collaborate to advance to the heights we now adore. May be they have a thing or two to tell us about ways to change and progress. This may be what this is all about except that we would miss the point to deny they are there. It is reasonable to ask what next they plan, failing so to do. This spells angst and more lest we know what may lie ahead. But we lack, again. Still where we are for sure is clearly we know not where we head.
We may not want to think our sun will die. Yet it will not live forever. We may not want to imagine what happens to us thereafter. Yet, our planet will die. May be we need to start now is what we fail to hear. From our friends that come and go, the message recoils. They return to try again it seems and we retreat, lost in our little world in a vast universe we cannot but explore. Why we do not want a ride seems obscure, from who may be eager with us to embark on a cosmic trip.
Nothing will stop the truth in time. But what we lose tarrying we may never regain. We may see time and space as conjured by us. May be they are fictional too. Science is fiction, we may claim. Yet, we acquiesce to what we invoke, except our friends from way out yonder. This may be understandable after all, their home way beyond our magic, their science, too abstract for our fiction.
At least though, we must dream on. May be we would see we need to talk to our friends, even if to validate our reality as we are wont to do. Never mind what we call it, science, fiction, or voodoo. It may not be so hard to conjure the end of our planet, and ignore it. We may say that will not be just now. Yet, one wonders why we should not yearn to build a better world for those to come, even if somewhere else, to immerse in the cosmos.
