What Richard Dawkins can't seem to get his head around
Is that our creation or evolution or whatever you want to call it
Is just an enormous joke - a life form jest punctuating eternity
So now we have seven to ten billion of us standing at the edge
Of a kind of cosmic black hole wavering on the brink of
Our own subsequent anonymity - largely oblivious to the abyss
But there is a kind of collective half-understanding
That we are reaching an impasse and that there may be nothing
Sensible to be done - that our time is disappearing into singularity.
Sometimes steers go mad when they near the slaughterhouse
And although they are limited in terms of imagination and intelligence
They sense the horror of the end - upsetting the equilibrium -
And the abattoir guardians of the stun-gun impose order on chaos,
Just as strong men and women are now arising amid human confusion
Appearing to promise hope - and a return to an ordered processing.
But more generally we infer that space and time may exhibit 'holes' or 'edges'
With singularities that are best defined as some kind of 'pathological behaviour'
That takes place on the swilled floor provided by infinity - inevitably.
Anyhow, as gates are closed on the mob, I'm determined to stand back
And cherish the small glimmerings of collective empathy
And noble purpose that we glimpsed on our stock-truck trip - what a laugh!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem