Galactic wings aloft, a set,
nicknamed ‘the Angel Wing',
are merging in a minuet
of graceful seraph fling.
Though some alignments are by chance
when seen from planet Earth
appearing as a happenstance
to overlap in girth,
the two in VV six eight nine
are in collision said
to be, within their wing design
symmetrically spread.
The Hubble scope has captured well
in image satellite
this great galactic parallel
to angel wings in flight.
It was in nineteen ninety when
the Hubble made its launch
and wondrously enough since then
its viewing has been staunch,
perhaps because it's been maintained
by astronauts in space,
the only telescope ordained
when first ‘twas put in place
to have system repairs, upgrades,
and instruments, all five,
refurbished via human aides—
withal it's still ‘alive'
and shall continue for some time,
two decades more, so I'm
apprised, long past predicted prime,
with portraitures sublime.
This dainty depiction dreamy
might have inspired van Gogh
who sought starry visions gleamy
and felt their stellar glow
would cause his reveries to rise
plus musings stir to hope,
seen through impressionistic eyes
on life's beleaguered slope.
If ‘hope is the thing with feathers-
that perches in the soul-
while singing the tune which weathers-
the gales that take their toll-
‘a melody- to never cease-
like birdsong sweet- which stays-
and gives the suffering release-'
to Dickinson rephrase,
then surely such angelic sight
that's hovering on high
against the cosmos darkened night
can paint for us a sky
where hope might flutter in our hearts
for future's open door
with yet unknown galactic arts
existing evermore…
And even midst a piercing grief
which brings unbidden gloom
that wordless song could sound relief
for dawn of dulcet doom,
much as the galactic blending
while turbulent we're told,
within an apparent ending
hails newness to behold…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem