I was sitting in class, and
The teacher taught us to be humble, Whereupon we lowered the shade And we covered all the walls with scumble, But no one taught us of the parsecs Whose depths, whose scarlet nebulae, Whose breathless black, filled With empty, frothing energy Or of the cilia of throbbing Eukaryotic cells, or pulsing Stars, pregnant with their rays, Or seahorse fathers, their convulsing Bellies, spilling clouds of eggs, These mere wisps, these streaks, These flecks, these hints, These whispers of impossible peaks, We learn to live the lives Of slaves, dragging ourselves Through repetitious streets, Throwing our hats on worm-ridden shelves. First teach me of greatness so Fantastic that it fills Me with a faithful map, That it streaks the hills With the courses of the spring Rills, on which the sun Glints, with the moss moist, Where the newly freed brooks run, Then I will be humble, because That is how great you are Because if the million galaxies Could all be a single star, Blazing, massive, gold or Red, blue, pulverizing, raging fire, More magnificent than any Mind could grasp, more than an empire Of all but infinite extent, Oh they are just the foam Frothing on the surface of the creek, And you are more than world and more than home.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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