For all we know, there yet is mystery
Enough, confounding our intelligence,
To keep our questing brains from atrophy
With who and what and where and why and whence.
We Homo questors now are launching probes
Deep into outer space in hopes to find
What intellects may live on distant globes
And how the vasty Cosmos is designed.
Were it not better, though, to tend our garden,
Restoring what was once a Paradise,
Relearning love and mending hearts that harden,
Becoming sapient by growing wise?
The follies we’ve committed, we’ll transcend
When all our errant trespasses we mend.