In the primordial swirl, in a vortex of hues,
Life and life-not dance a tango to the sultry beat.
Here, Euclid never lived, and nothing is ever relative
In the dance of destruction; the coil of creation.
Witness birth, an explosion, a nuclear expansion.
It sings your name on the radio waves,
But it's light years and decades
from being light years away,
And you're centuries and millennia from being eons from birth.
Still it knows you. It feels you. It is you. It sings.
In the midst of the maelstrom,
It shines bright, a point,
A lantern of lucidity, an anchor of hope.
You are nothing, not here,
Not even close to your birth.
Still it knows you. It feels you, It is you. It sings.
So on emergence and years of your lattes and trials,
When you look up, you see not your star shining bright,
But a curtain of black velvet and diamond scintillation.
They are all kinds of stars, fueled with fusion and fire,
You say you don't see it: not the one: not this night.
Still It knows you. It feels you. It is you. It sings.
And you know it. You feel it. You are it. You sing.