When the birds in the sky flew thrice as high
and the buildings were three times as tall;
When the whole world was triple its current size
we played with a checkered ball

My house and my city seemed giant-made
reality magically odd
the mysteries one after one arrayed
I almost believed in God

But all became smaller, less magic each year
as if my own childhood and youth
had been all the mysteries' source, and with fear
I accepted the terrible truth:

That the birds in the sky never flew very high
and the buildings were never that tall
That the big and mysterious was all in my eye
– was all due to me being small

No gods and no giants, no wonder no awe
No meaning, no mission, no call
No mystery, no magic, no Santa Claus
A natural sad little ball

A ball mathematically circling the sun
a nature of laws and no more
So empty and simple, and now I feel dumb
for thinking it big before