Along the strasse, young Mumeishi hits
His stride. He stresses, 'Guten Abend,' smiling
Habitually -- a bunch of customs piling
Up from half a thousand years of his bits
And chunks of infinite. Mumeishi sits
And folds his legs. The light year is beguiling;
The distance is sublime; the final styling
Instantiates itself along his wits,
And lines his consciousness with Cosmos, edging
This Homo sapiens with hydrogen
And carbon, sparks and dust. He feels a fledging
Conclude, and writes pastorals on his skin
For Darien -- the silent epoch dredging
His telos just between begin and fin.
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