THE LAST QUESTION
For M.M.
Since the first
great cosmic burst
without purpose, without care,
The stellar scape's
thrown formless shapes
like smoke into the air—
Shapes which begin
& are gone again
as soon as they are there.
Where skins are shed
and fires fed
time passes without rule,
Each age a drop
drawn from the top
of time's incessant pool;
The blazes sweep
and none can keep
the fire from the fuel.
Into the fight
with blinding light
some brazen souls are drawn,
But none can tame
the heavens' flame
with reason or with brawn;
And so, alas
each age shall pass
till time itself is gone.
As ages burn
the engine churns
and tidal surges pour,
From source to dust
on toward the cusp
that no one's waiting for:
When all is smoke
the engine chokes
and darkness is restored.
So the aeons go
the orbits slow
the flames grow ever thin,
And a human voice
seeing no choice
rises from within:
O, who knows what grand
and steady hand
may wind the clock again?
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