Who draws the fabric of the dark
From naught and folds it to become
Invisible cathedrals strung
With galaxies in vaulted arcs?
Who orchestrates the silent dance
Of planets spun ’round alien stars
And plots dark paths for meteors
To plunge the fathomless expanse?
Who forges ghosts to roam the void
In cloaks of dust and turns tow’rd night
Their gazes—grasped in astral light—
To fear the wonders there deployed?
Who frames what nameless mysteries—
Unknown, save him who them designed—
May haunt cold worlds where sun is blind
And pens their shadowed histories?
Who all such sundry signs contrives
In awe-inspi’ring art—
And why?
He wrought in cosmic majesty
A sermon that the black holes sing,
Their dreadful splendor echoing
A shard of his infinity.