Gyre Poem by Fruchtbeine sonn

A point stood lone and quiet in the dark
And Infinite Energy passed, and left a spark
From which the point took life. This was the sun.
Expanding in its self-subsuming way
The world was then too young to hear Them say
In voices softened, as to pray,
'Begun.'

Original perfection Their device,
They judged that this alone did not suffice,
A universe run by a master plan,
Devoid of meaning, giving no pretense
Of reason for existing. In immense
Concern They labored, and, at great expense,
Made man.

Perfection without reason discontent,
The system sought its added element
And whispered welcome to the man's first breath:
A mortal in the splendid system's midst;
A newfound joy, a reason to exist.
But, in adding life, also insist
On death.

The system's postulates, earlier based
On one variable less, were now replaced
By problems of free-will unknown before.
And scarcely had the hymns of praise been sung
When They found need to speak unto Their young
About his game, on which the world hung,
Called War.

Determinism gone, there was no hope.
Conflicts of free-will increased in scope
Among Creators' constant pleas to cease.
According to man's own instinctive laws,
Amidst Creators' overjoyed applause,
The war moved to its teleological cause,
Called peace.

Their Fathers' voices echo and rebound,
Exhorting them with pleas renewed. Their sound
And fury raise them to elation:
Restore the land as it was in days gone by!
Let perfection rule the earth, as it does the sky!
And in return We promise, when you die,
Salvation.

Thus the Great Creators grant their pardon.
Man may now repent: back to the Garden.
And what price paradise? What They implore:
Allow the master plan to rule again;
Seek perfection in the world of men.
But each strives for his unique ideal, and then
It's war.

The prayers for future peace will not be said.
Since man was born, eternal peace is dead.
Control of motion, energy and mass
Died with it then, and will not be reborn
Until the present object of Their scorn
Destroys himself. It will be as They warn.
Alas.

Solution finally found, They form a pact:
System, stop expanding! Now contract:
The many whirling masses will be one.
They run no more their self-subsuming path,
Retrace their steps so well defined by math.
Reduction to a point, thus speaks Their wrath.
'Tis done.

A point stands lone and quiet in the night.
They hover 'round and contemplate the sight
And All agree it shall not be again.
The Only Ones have had Their hope-filled test
Which now is done and leaves Them All distressed.
What They have done is done, and They are blessed.
Softly, amen.