When I was still a hopeward boy,
I’d often dream of flight
Out past the clouds, into the stars,
And everlasting night.

I dreamed of beauty pure and cold,
And music in the spheres,
But destined I was not to be
Among the rocketeers.

The sun now bothers tired eyes,
The night I hold at bay;
The cycles of the earth go by,
I miss them, either way.

For now, I float in metaphors,
And live in seminars —
But cannot, even in my dreams,
Get back into

The stars