Yourself against the ever-turning sky—
Latest and earliest always, it seems,
The same from babbling towers to rocket dreams.
Is it something to do with how you move
Drives you, simultaneously, to prove
You can domesticate the atmosphere,
Imagined gods’ imagined challengers,
But then berate yourselves as utter fools
Who should be punished for breaking the rules?
Something to do with how your flightless heads
Bob upright in air, with being bipeds
Oriented up while weighed to the ground?
It’s not as if the sky cares you’re too proud.
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