The Watchers

Our great telescopes probe the depths of space
And chart the farthest corners of the sky
Where novae, black holes, pulsars, quasars lie,
Yet nowhere have they found the slightest trace,
Nor hint of any other Cosmic Race.
The skeptics and the zealots taunt us: Why?
Inferring that Mankind will live and die
An island in some Deity’s embrace.

Some think such Questions pointless, or sublime;
Does God really exist? Can we not span
This vast immeasurable gulf in time?
Or was it, from the start, part of the Plan,
A never-to-be-fathomed Grand Design,
Can it be true: The stars are not for Man?

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