Like gnats, buffeted by fickle Wind.
Some god’s whim shaking even the mightiest of kings.
In unworldly metal tubes with wheels and wings,
defiant, to the heavens, go us ground-born things.
In pursuit of Earth’s unimaginable imaginings,
escaping, feverish, from all our happenings.
To be shaken, so violently, by lightest Breeze.
So small, so meaningless against Earth’s skin,
so fragile, so delicate: our woven dreams.