How high we are here;
seated somewhere
between the stars
and the sleeping town below.
See: we are so high
that we have but to reach out
to touch the moon’s bright face
as it rises to greet us from the horizon.
See: we are so high
that we need only to listen carefully
to hear the murmured whisperings
of the gods above
as they chart the tide of the affairs of men
asleep and unknowing in the world below.
See: we are so high
that we count ourselves
as sisters to the stars.
Continuing their journeys
our sister stars are unaware
that their wanderings, their very courses,
are traced out by us.
For nothing can happen in the heavens
unless we three decide that it will.
The truth is: the gods are helpless,
unable to act without our instructions
(although they do not know this,
and imagine that their schemes
are all their own).
And so we three sit here quietly
through the blue Arabian night,
making the decisions of gods,
naming new constellations:
here: the leopard,
with glowing twin-sun eyes,
there: the stooping falcon,
wings stretched between galaxies,
and there: the heroine,
riding a winged sphinx
to stars yet more distant than her own:
all creatures of our night-watch fantasy.
But even these things are pastimes,
pleasantries, mere diversions.
For our true purpose
Is to search until we find one star,
and one star only
among our myriad sister stars.
Somewhere, if only we can find it,
shines a star that will save the world.
and that is the star
which we will call down to earth.
Painting: Arabian Nights by Jean-Joseph Benjamin-Constant
