The Dot - Poem by Hans Preciado
On the depths below we find the very atoms we are composed of,
We find the answers for all that is, and for all that isn’t
But are we really sure that is what we are
down to the ultimate size?
I mean of something else.
The electric impulse that creates our destiny is that real matter that makes us,
Those elicit particles that rule over our memories,
That little particle is so big
Yet into his proportional means, it is so ironic.
The real meaning is all to be miniaturized
And to do this, it is all to be imagined,
Or to the skeptic eye,
To be only nothing more than an illusion.
The transformation of the essences of the real idea
That meant the energy to be used in a general fusion of matter,
That matter that conforms us all the real matter is only pigment of a diminutive dot.
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