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The Mysteries of the Night

Oh dome of night, spotted with silver stars,
I must ask more than you can grant unto me,
So that thus I might at least obtain that
Which I but wish for in the first place.

I beg you to yield your dearest secrets,
To reveal the full truth of what you are.

Oh, man, I cannot tell thee of all there is,
For I am that, as all that IS—the Wiz,
And as I never began, I earned not my throne,
Yet I reside as the All for reasons unknown.

Much I already know from twilight dreams
And from poems unveiling truth and beauty,
Yet I ask, with my most persuasive looks,
To learn the deepest mysteries of the night.

I have always been, and must be, so jot:
That All is ever here to be, since nothing cannot.

Well then, might lesser answers I obtain, in lieu
Of never us knowing really the why-fore of you?

Oh heavens yes; pose your quandaries,
But ask not immortality, nor youth, nor birth
From my powers of the night, ‘though these I have
But know not the why, for I have no First.

Why then, is the universe so extravagant—
With trillions of galaxies of billions of stars,
About which so many planets whirl and twirl,
With so much dust swirling in between worlds?

There are vast multitudes, true, so easily made,
And more; yet they are finite, as must be,
For no cap can be placed on infinity;
If it could, then night would be white with light.

So then, there are stars to burn, as with riches,
But why, really must the largest be so large?

It is because the infinitesimal, the smallest,
Must be so very tiny, so minuscule,
As a simple, continuous function,
Neither composite nor of course complex.

So there is a basic lightness of being
Because anything more would then be of parts
And thus beyond the fundamental arts?

Yes it is that the base can only be as such
When it’s just a bit more than nothing;
But there is some more to it; just ask to learn.

Is it too that there are then so many more chances
For arrangements, due to the extravagances?

Not as meant, but that falls out, as it must,
For since the opposite Not cannot be,
I must then be Everything—of possibility.

All at once? Then that is a superposed All.
What makes time begin and then gear its call?

As great as I am, there are two limits
To which even I must ever obey:
My superpositions must either trace back
To total order or to disorder: two.

And so time can only begin from order,
As with matter separated from antimatter—
Time pushed forward by this arrangement,
And further pulled forward by disorder?

’Tis confirmed, with the Big Bang start,
Through the vast stages of diversity,
Unto the end—of entropy’s heat death.

As protons to stars to their explosions
And radiations to atoms to cells to life
Unto brains and consciousness?

Yes, from the stars cometh not just our help,
But us too and everything else out there.
All is the continuance of just the one big effect
Of the one big event of the beginning of time.

Earth couldn’t be farther out in space, alone;
In all directions it rolls along, unknown.
I look to the stars piercing the depths of time:
They beckon, warm and welcome, the fires of home.

I am that, as the night sky, whom you ask.

I wish that I retain your presence
Within me, in rhythm and resonance.

Everything is part of the IS,
Which is really the best answer to your quiz.

Who am I really talking to?

Yourself, for you are the universe come to life.

I live; I love.

You do not just live; you are life.
You do not just love; you are love.

They are both here.

Life and love do not flee on, just ahead of you, unreachable,
Leaving you but to lean forth and drink their wind.
You are the universe turned around to view itself.

I strive.

Zest, desire, caring, and other feelings sweet
Are your lightning feet for triumphant feats.

I reason.

All manner of shapes haunt the wilderness of the mind,
Many as waste, as in the universe, at large, in kind,
Just waiting and asking to be tamed as sane.

I ponder.

You are the golden chalice to the wine that flows;
Drink, drink!
You are the live and resultant existence that knows.
Think, think!

I imagine.

Thoughts fly in the mind like birds wing the wind;
Imagination is the atmosphere wherein ideas are born
And borne on the waves of the sea in which one sees.

I have arrived, after 13.57 billion years.

All from stardust begins and ends in thee.
The mighty wrecks of the elements are strewn
Across the universe like chaff from the harvest—
Much of the Cosmos a vast wasteland.

Are there others elsewhere as I and all?

Yes, in quite a few places, but afar,
With much intervening space in between.

What more could human mammals want?

This is it.
There is nothing more now, but in future growth.

It is now and I am here.