Small garden in the middle of a waste
Of radiating darkness we name space
Fishpond on the surface we call sea
And dryness we call land of sand or tree
Simplifying surely yet how much
Of that created is beyond our touch
Available to senses and obtained
By those machines from which the flesh refrained
Now what could be the purpose of it all?
A little garden and a pond, a wall
Of emptiness surrounding what supports
Awareness, time, intelligence of sorts
Has it been forever or it starts
By some great strangeness far beyond our smarts?
Mysterious that it should be, exist—
The Mind that aimed to make it hasn’t missed
A small round planet as a sort of garden
And something, namely us, to ask the question:
Why and how and Who, what does it mean
That such exists, extraordinary scene?