In outer space

a poem about harmony

In outer space
there's planets floating of different patterns and different sizes,
and they all interact without touching,
and they all interact without knowing each other.

They push and pull, they communicate,
they know the exactness of their neighbour,
their lights and their shadows,
their nights and their days.

They form a net of connection
from which no one can escape,
and if you look closely, you'll notice that its strings move slightly,
here and there, as if trembling,
as if moved by a slight breeze,
though you'll know there is no such thing as wind 
in outer space.

Once you see it, you'll tune in, you'll keep quiet,
and if you're lucky enough, you'll discover the reason for it,
for there is a silent voice rising between the planets,
a quiet singing, with no source or direction of going,
but simply pervading everything,
shaking it to the bone,
making the net strings tremble to its melody,
making the planets waltz to its purity.

You've never heard anything like it before,
so you're unlikely to recognize it with your human ears,
— what is a human doing in outer space, anyway? —
but that's the angels singing:
their sweet voices enough to make sure that
everything always moves the way it's supposed to
and everything always falls into place
where it's supposed to.

And so the planets move and spin at exactly the right speed,
and the stars burn at the exactly right intensity,
and your life falls into place perfectly,
and the oxygen gets to your lungs,
and your lungs are able to make use of it,
and the world keeps spinning,
and it's always a new day,
and the Sun is out,
and you're alright.

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