The fate of the universe is darkish,
as Einstein has assessed and Hubble later on.
The dark energy squeezes tightly our throat,
the whole universe inflates like a balloon,
it becomes a ball, swelling at a devil’s pace,
the galaxies depart, the one from the other,
like a bird from a bird, me from you,
we from us, like the community from its shadow.
The dark matter will make the universe cold,
they say, a rooster overthrows the previous one
that of the dark energy, before it puffs us up,
before it makes us debris, a floating zero.
For a solution, NASA will send proper poetry
via a modern radar, to make the forces wise.
They asked verses of mine. The Committee wonders
whether they are inappropriate or 'in, appropriate'.
I guess that in the end God is waiting for us
to chat with us for the light-tree of a humble love,
for the wise who knows that he knows nothing,
for a saint who speaks with the stars, His birds.
What else he wishes to feel moved and recreate?
© JosephJosephides
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem