Come, O New Jerusalem!

We grow bigger and the gods grow smaller, as it should be.

Once we crawled upon the earth, our mouths choked with dust, and the gods stood over us in every blade of grass, every spreading tree, every cloud’s shadow. Once, we huddled around our fires and watched the stars fade and there too were the gods. A dark hand, extended at our death; thus did the gods continue to watch over us.

And we grew. The earth was ours, and we had the run of it. From pole to pole we spread, and beyond: the seas became our well-traveled roads, the skies our familiar halls. We built cities, and clouds clustered close around their tops, and the gods withdrew. We dove deep beneath the sea, and found there marvels and wrecks and strange creatures in the millions, and the gods withdrew.

We took to the stars. We live but small lives, yet, and still the gods extend a shadowed hand to us. We reach back, now, though — through the vacuous rooms of the palace of the gods we call space we have sent an emissary, charged with music and mathematics, on a voyage that will, perhaps, never end.

But perhaps someday our hands will touch, and we will be gods, and the gods will welcome us home, as the parent loves the no-longer child.