poem

Shall We Throw Away the Key?

To every man is given the key to the gates of heaven.

Homes made with broken pieces of wood,
old gasoline cans to get water.
Is this a problem of technical know-how?

This is the gold. The belief of the ancients.
The world is a spinning ball
and we turn like a spit in front of a great fire.

The imagination of nature is far, far greater
than the imagination of man and all the time
we have been too proud.

This piece of dirt waits, nothing more exciting
than the truth, as the girl dances up and down.
Perhaps she smiles.

The newspapers have a standard line for every discovery.
They cannot explain subtle trickery,
beautiful tightropes of logic.

Two apparently different things
were different aspects of the same thing.
How to work the power is clear; how to control it is not.

The same key opens the gates of hell

Found poem from “The Meaning of It All” by Richard P. Feynman.