So Light

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I sing the Equations of Maxwell, of electric and magnetic entwined,

of the work of ěrsted and Faraday and of the meaning from it refined.

"'Tis gray, 'tis gray all theories be," Goethe's Devil to Faust proclaimed,

but polished gray is silver and Maxwell's sterling is famed.

Electrics, magnetics, and optics unite in four concise equations,

mathematical statements twice distilled from crude mundane observations.

Forcefields anchored in matter, coarse forms ugly to sight;

but from them distilled a wonder, the purest essence of light.

Together the fields offer support, each the other upholding,

flying through space at stoptime speed, through a Universe unfolding.

Freed from mundane matter, shaken free by electric vibration,

the forcefields fly at lightspeed, like souls to their destination.

Pure, even sacred, light is taken to be, though the end has not been reached;

for misnamed Relativity is light's theory that Einstein preached.

For light reflects the Absolute, though gravity slightly curves it,

traveling always at the same fixed speed, no matter who observes it.

And light and mass are both the same, but which is fundamental?

Bearing its truth throughout all space, light seems more transcendental.

So like a photon trapped in matter, waiting to be free,

my soul awaits the timely demise that will let me truly be me.


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