Although by now we have been blind for many years,
we still sit by the window, staring for hours into the void,
hoping perhaps that our imagination would coincide
with vision, that light would separate from darkness.
In our imagination, memories reconfigure themselves
in valiant efforts to please us, to lighten the stark reality
that has descended on us after the sun exploded.
We thought at first it would be the end, that all life
would be extinguished, but instead we were pushed
out into deep space, and now we drift, mere phantoms
floating helplessly in the vastness, without any religion.
In our imagination, it might still be Spring, and soft rain
during the night has left sparkling jewel-like water beads
on all of the green leaves, now warmed by the first
light of a new day, a glorious day that we took
for granted, because we were foolish.
We looked up and saw a fabulous blue sky,
but since we had things on our minds, things
that, in retrospect, never really mattered anyway,
we carried on as if the blue would always be there.
We took so much for granted, how could we know?
There is no blame now, what good would that do us
at this point, as we sail on through an eternal night?
Some claim that nature itself was trying to tell us,
to warn us, but we were arrogant, we trusted
the scientists and their great experiment.
They were determined to master the universe,
no expense would be spared, but now
they are quiet, everything is quiet.
It is not the confident quiet of true humility,
but the kind of eerie quiet which lingers over
a battlefield after all of the trembling warriors
have finished at last with their gruesome work.