A little girl drowned on a ship in 1473,
bleached bones picked clean by sharks,
cannot undigest or restore herself.
Humans have created so much—
from bombs to symphonies,
from plagues to vaccines,
but cannot overcome death,
cannot escape the grave themselves.
When did it turn for me in my radical days,
the years when I tried to save mankind?
Turned when I figured people could not save us.
Outside interventions, only a god,
aliens seem never to find us.
Man cannot climb out of the grave.
Has to be lifted out—not by grave robbers,
but by a power beyond humans.
I ask you—who might that be?
Originally published in Ariel Chart