Читать книгу Psalms for the Poor - Kent Gramm - Страница 16

When I consider thy heavens . . .

Thy heavens frighten me, to tell the truth.

This little Earth’s speed is a constant shock;

you’d think our air would fall off like a sack.

And then where do you go to take a breath?—

the next atmosphere is light years away

and it’s a soup of half-frozen methane.

But then I think that speed is relative,

and distance too. My thought masters it all.

I am the lord of all that I survey:

you reduce everything that you believe.

There’s no catch. I’m as simple as the rain,

and all I have to do is fall.