adrift alone among the galaxies
with my umbilical connection cut.
I cannot hear the music of the spheres
in this far place, but I can hear the cries
of human beings in my inner ears:
my bones report what antennae cannot.
Our fathers tell tales of Ultima Thule,
where bolder spacers than their sons reside,
but who has been there? None returns to tell.
The final spaceport is the same for all,
a black hole of infinite gravitation,
which even drags light to oblivion.
No one knows what is on its other side.
July 1977
