at night, toward the stars that faintly glow,
to curse your human mind for being slow
and yet unable to cease asking why.
Those distant lights insist on passing by,
around the Earth and through your mind they go,
suggesting that there is so much to know
if only you could teach your thoughts to fly.
But even maths and instruments can lie
no matter how methodical you grow,
and so your faith in Science sinks so low
until, at last, your soul will raise a cry:
Though planets, stars and galaxies may gleam,
what can a human do except to dream?
Oh well. I may never become a good scientist, but at least I can string a sonnet together in less than an hour. That's something to write on my gravestone, or whatever it is that you actually do with achievements.
Please forgive my bitterness. Soon this trial of a master's thesis will be at an end. I can just about make out a light at the end of the tunnel. I guess that's the oncoming train.
Love and poetry,