Camden Hill, religious studies, comparative literature, French
The soft hum of the stars
Called out, called out,
But there’s nothing to hear in space.
Green leaves of an ancient tree
Danced a dance of geometry
And formed impossible symmetries
That were never beheld,
Then, before, or since.
The wind wills the waves to be,
Yet will send them to their end.
And the will of the rock
Is always eroding,
As the ocean stands resolute.
While the red planet bleeds,
And the galaxy feeds,
The divine plays the medic.
But no patient can be saved
From the patience of time,
Save chaos the patient unraveler,
Nothing lasts Nothing’s last purge
But beauty, and the word,
And the long, still silence.
This poem is my rather vain attempt to capture the beautiful yet incommensurate nature of the universe, as well as our world’s seemingly endless paradoxes. The vast majority of everything will never be observed by human eyes, yet what we have accessible to us here on Earth is still too vast for an individual to comprehend, much less personally behold. Even the seemingly constant objects with which we can interact, such as a rocky shoreline, will in time be reduced to nothing by the constantly inconstant forces of nature. How can the creator of nature, if such a being exists, sit idly by and allow the unraveling of the very universe they set in motion? I suggest that in the end, after all is said and done, what will be left will not be a God triumphant in his grand plan to save the universe from itself, but rather something much more like the peaceful quiet after the resolution of a dissonant chord.