“I’d like to think we’re part of something eternal –
that Life on Earth is just a passing spell,
or a wrist-flick of some hidden Herr Supernal.
A deep blue diapason in a cosmic swell!
I’m just beyond the crest, Dear. Give a yell!”
Pythagoras was keen to speak with a blacksmith –
so intrigued he was by the beauty of those sounds.
They seemed to hammer out atomic pith,
to seize which would be to fathom the cosmic bounds.
The smiths of Samos agreed to lend him their tools;
he toyed with them and marked their ratios.
His knowledge resulted in lengths of string on spools
and led – eras hence – to waltzes and con brios.
At times he had to set aside his fears
that She was merely the discords of other spheres.