Tell me, do the planets preach their cosmic law,
Or circle out of reach, untouched by our awe?
Do stars give sermons as they burn past distant spheres,
Or vanish cold with no concern for human tears?

The void expands—a choir drained of sound,
Devoid of promise, faith, or flame unbound.
Our mortal prayers to comets, spun and cast,
Are swallowed whole by silence, cold and vast.

We chart the heavens, draw and map their lines,
Impose our myths, invent and codify designs,
While galaxies, aloof, unmoved, unbent,
Ignore the scriptures, rejecting all we’ve sent.

A creed of orbits, dust, and ancient stone,
A catechism written deep in bone:
For all we build, and all we strive to keep,
Must sink at last into oblivion’s sleep.

Black holes swallow matter, light and years—
A fitting image for our crimes and fears.
We study supernovas’ breathless flight,
And learn that stars, like mortals, fade from sight.

The cosmos spins in patterns past our reach,
Its secrets slip beyond what words can teach.
We name the constellations, stitch the sky,
Yet fail to read the tears in children’s eyes.

So this my creed—astronomer’s despair:
We’re motes of dust adrift in frigid air.
The stars look down with cold, indifferent gleam—
Perhaps we are the universe’s dream.

Or else its nightmare—born where reason dies,
A fever galaxies themselves despise,
Realizing folly wins the ancient prize
To creatures lost, yet crowning themselves wise.