Always trouble talking about science.
Even the poetry house welcomes you and says,
"
Es muss sein!" — "It must be!"
I remember an evening
when the stars broke their orbits
and came down to meet me
as I stood in a crowd of people.
Our bright lights, heavier than I knew,
reached out their hands and grabbed my head
and shook my shoulders.
Everyone standing there watched, astonished.
Some said, "What we have here,
though difficult to understand, makes sense."
Others said, "Only by some dark, dark magic
could he have made the stars come down."
Still others—maybe those with sense—
simply ignored the whole spectacle.
And at the end of it,
the stars decided to shake my hand,
burning it, I assure you,
right before they said, "Have fun!"
as they piloted up through the atmosphere,
back to their rightful spectrum.
So they left me there
with their maddening partners,
the sub-atomic particles,
who I barely had time to meet and understand
before the girls in the crowd gathered around—
addressing my success
and addressing my wounds.
Distracted as I was then,
and as life spun me onward
away from that evening,
sometimes late at night
I look at my scarred hand
and consider what I learned
from those great masses of burning gas.
I remember how either way,
soon after the stars left,
the crowd grew weary of me.
And the religion house,
the murderers of every prophet,
even they welcome you:
"
Es muss sein!" — "It must be!"
But the stars laugh and say,
"Consider how the little girl rose and
was saved from the dead!"
Always trouble talking about science.
