Roof of the World

What if the roof of the world were torn off?

Then the sky, the real sky, would show through.

As our sky turns to black by a deepening from blue
So this sky would be a deeper black
With a stronger memory of blue.

And the stars!

A city dweller who leaves the urban lights
Sees new heavens: new stars flowing
In silver ribbons across the sky.

But this sky would hold golden glories,
Globes of silver and jade and sapphire,
Glowing honey in brilliant pale droplets.

And the older stars, grown fat and ruddy with years
Would send from their stately obesity
Not so much beams
As ruby rivers of illumination
In which young suns
Would bob like lanterns cast adrift
In a Chinese festival.

Galaxies would wheel in joyful dance,
Their intricate patterns now livened to visibility.

Comets would burst like fireworks,
Meteors blink like fireflies.

But if we could hardly stand the glories
That true night would bring,
Would not the day's coming
Be so intolerable
That any who spoke of it
Could tell only of disaster?

The brightness of that sun could not be seen
Because no eye could endure it;
Could not be reported
Because no brain could survive it.

Not light does it give but life,
Yet life so vigorous as to be death
To anything that can die.

And so, with the coming of true day,
All that is mortal would pass away.

And yet, could we see but the spark of its rising,
We would, as we perished, call ourselves blessed.