If a critic came from outer space,
With criticisms of the human race,
Criticisms listing vanity or helplessness or sin,
Would be attentively heard—but criticism from within,
Would not be heard—the human race would not be free
To listen—they would nail the critic to a tree.
With rage against the critic spent,
The rage itself would not relent,
But live in the symbol of the tree:
“Do not dare to criticize me.
My only king is gravity.”
Gravity has no voice. Gravity has no face.
Newton’s gravity, invisible, odd,
Suffocates the scientist who dares believe in outer space,
Who dares believe in God.
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