QUERY

To the moors and the afts of twilight's glare
I have nothing, oh nothing, nothing to bear;
To the purplish violet, to the crimson rose,
My pockets are empty, not a thing to disclose;
As I walk through the streets of the city-beau,
With its horrors and hungers I shall never know,
I speak to myself, I wonder aloud
'Bout the silence beyond the world's sheer shroud;
"What lies up above?" I yell without fear
At the top of my lungs for all men to hear,
"How far can we go before there's an end
To the vast universe upon which we depend?
Or if there's no end how much will we see
Of the space, the cosmos, of eternity?
Will we find what we're after: the ultimate clue
To the meaning of life, the answer that's true?
Or will man never learn to surpass the bind
To ethereal pleasures within his small mind?"
It was at this time I looked up at the moon,
Shook my head and hoped for an answer quite soon;
I carried on down my merry old way,
And have not found an answer to this very day.

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