Happy, are we, the dreaming sons of God,

idyllic in Eden we sat and gave

to beast and fish and bird the names that they’ve

the ground travers’d, in flesh and fur abroad.

The bird, of song and flight: predator claw’d,

does fly, as we, the ones, each new path pave,

in creationary forces behave,

as God above the men and land we trod.

But sad, are we, the lucid sons of Man

for we, the fruit from highest boughs did draw.

And as did fall Morning Star to Hell’s Maw,

to hard and brittle Earth’s expanding span

we fall, wings clipped; our one redeeming flaw:

the way we view the flight’s reverse in awe.