The day will come when men
will leave the earth
and put behind the things that they have made.
No longer will they have their place of birth.
The stars are where their children will then play.
The poets of that future, they
up at a sky that we will never know,
alight with constellations out of place,
but will they see their old ancestral home?
That tiny point of light up
in their sky,
will it still have the power to inspire?
Can light reflect emotion and then drive
imaginations to creative fire?
When we, right now, tilt back
our heads at night,
are we inspired by someone else's light?