We carry upon our shoulders
a sky heavier than a granite rock
as the last of pin-point planets
glitter over our heads.

The hand of the master
is always raised with a whip.

The heron howls in the tunnel of forgiveness
and we all listen, humbled,
to the flapping of wings
in the music hall.

It doesn't matter
if we have the right or not
for I know in the end I'll meet
my ancestors, turned young
like me.

At least I hope to sit
in a candle-lit bar
and talk about the more mind-blowing miracles
like Jona sitting forgotten in the belly of the whale
making his way
to all those distant seas
guided by gamma rays.

The Tropic of Cancer is between us
and our departure, for sure.

When we finally arrived at the summit
we found our lives behind us
as guiding lights
along the way.

Carrying our credentials in our hands
we crossed Anno's old passage,
turning its Black Hole round,
and hurled the rock
into the abyss
once more.