We write messages, put them in bottles,
cast them into space. We curate what we think
is the best of us, or the most representative
of us. Music played by symphonies, the one-
note hum of a sitar, a shimmering copper
chorus of gongs, the mellow voices of poets.
Laughter, rain and foghorns; animal calls,
greetings in 55 languages. Who even knows
when or whether or not future beings
will examine our artifacts? By then,
the oceans will long have forgotten
our names and continents crumbled
in the depths like soggy croutons. Still,
we are in love with the idea that beauty
will somehow outlast the void,
that a billion light years from now,
something of us might survive, even
if only as a chord in the dust of space.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
