Wednesday, 4 July 2012

Higgs boson poem by the Norwegian writer Torild Wardenær

Inheritance CCCXXXIX

While the Higgs boson gnaws

Now as before we are in a jumble of light and gases

half-covered by our dark shells.
We look around us, presumptuous, as if we had
faceted eyes, or were on the brink of a new era.
But the world is coarse-grained and unpolished and considers us with a
cyclopean gaze.

Meanwhile earth plates and seasons shift, the Silurian grass

is followed by clubmoss and corn spurrey, the fields
are ploughed and ploughed so grains and mustard can grow, but the light
as usual devours everything in its path and enters us heavily and wildly
while the Higgs boson, not unlike an elf’s tooth, gnaws at most of what it comes across.

This though is difficult to prove.
The Cambrian mist still lies thick, and accuracy is low.
Practically only the sun rates among the sharpshooters, and it takes on no apprentice
but burns itself up along with all its medals.

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