Freefall parachutist, tightrope walker,
Trapeze artist hurling through the air,
Spanning chasms of sunsoaked space;

Oh tell me--in a billion sunsets or so,
After we earthlings are aged ghosts,
What creature peering into the night,
Will feel an aching to touch the stars?

Lost in its microscopic myopic trance,
It methodically unreels its liquid silk,
Tempered harder than the finest steel;

Oh tell me--in a billion freezings or so,
When all our ravenous searching stops,
Will beauty and love find a guardian
In quivering masses of protein thread?

Balanced on this whirling cosmic top,
Some mysterious urge vibrating within,
It weaves its mother's mystic dream;

Oh tell me--in a billion eclipses or so,
When our eyes are swallowed in mud,
Who will marvel at this song of life,
Will its rhythm be--as good as dead?