Simple gas balls,
No-
They're more aren't they?
You're sure it's not just a bunch of lights?
They don't look any different from,
a street lamp.
They're like dots on the sky's holy,
black canvas.
You're saying some sort of god put them there?
I guess that does make them holy.
But really, I don't see the huge deal,
I mean how could Whitman sit there with,
a learn'd astronomer?
I don't get it, truly.
You're telling me all this,
but you haven't shown me,
So I don't get it.
How amazing they can be,
by just words?
Go outside, you say?
And look up?
Will I see something?
Will it be worth it?
Fine, I'll go.
He walked outside,
and I watched him look up,
and he kept looking,
until he sat down in the grass,
eventually laying down,
looking up...
... he didn't return until the morning.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
very good writing, thanks, I like it.