And Yet It Moves

With certainty I could tell you 

that the sun is fixed to its location

and it is we who turn it, 

that we, moths, are locked in the motion

of all things who follow light. 

But what if we stood still,

if we stopped, what if we pleaded 

for self-deception, and after we rested,

eased by the absence of resistance,

what then? 

We might tumble through the emptiness 

of unilluminated space, and writhe

between fire and ice for infinity,

only ever in the search for another star

to cycle. 

And I have burned my own facts at the stake

and warmed my hands on the glow

of emergent lies not wishing to think or feel

the trouble of truths, I have basked

in the radiance of ignorance.

So I could tell you that we are anointed 

at the centre,

I could pin and frame this futility,

I could tie down the earth to show you

how everything else revolves around us,

and yet it moves. 

I dedicate this poem to Luigi. :)

Image from wikimedia commons: 

https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Nicolaus_Copernicus_-_Heliocentric_Solar_System.JPG