Here I am, something so small;
I barely seem a thing at all
compared to cosmos, far and wide
that I feel deserve greater pride.
For what are my problems to those
in lost interstellar limbos,
who blame our bids to hear their plea
on lack of air and gravity?
No, I’ve got nothing like the fear
that binds a celestial sphere,
and so I sit in humbled sky
and watch them as they drift on by…
But wait! Why do I muddle so
if my maps and charts let me know
that I’m the one who draws their path
and studies every pictograph?
For what are they, if they’re not seen,
but pieces of a lost machine…?
Know it only takes something small
to see the wonder of it all.