In the vast orchestra of the cosmos, one might expect a cacophony.
Instead, we find a mundane melody. A static lullaby only the cosmos can hum,
rhythmically repeating tales of space.
The stars, those eternal performers, know their lines all too well,
yet they linger backstage, hidden behind curtain nebulae,
waiting for an audience that never arrives.
Hush now, little black hole,
sing your silent gravity song,
let the quasars twinkle
in their forgetful, fading light.
The universe is a sleepy maestro,
with an orchestra of lonely planets,
each note a flickering galaxy,
each rest a cosmic sigh.
Do they know their symphony is but a silent echo,
never heard by any ear, organic or otherwise?
Perhaps that's the irony, the satire of it all.
Or perhaps, it's just another lullaby in space.