Out of nothing, something.
They have studied long hours and dark to learn these secrets.
To strike the rock and bring forth sweet water;
to lay hands upon a barren sector and call forth wealth.
From nothing to nothing.
Quickly gained, and quickly lost, they
are masters of the black swan, the unforeseen,
the unknown unknowns.
They live where the smooth curves diverge,
where the lines stutter, break, and fall out of memory.
Nothing is but what it is said to be.
Like all such Adams, they name things.
By naming things, they force them to be.
“This is so,” and it is.
“This is priced so,” and it is.
They have their colleges, their meeting-rooms, their mirrored ateliers.
Black wings strike against the atmosphere.
A ragged space, echthroi,
mockeries of the angels with their many eyes
the wings that fan the fires
the ragged voice that calls the world into being.
Faster than thought, limited only by the speed of light.
Light bends away from their impossible weight.
A caesura in the endless sentence.
The laborer is worthy of his hire.
They do not build; they neither sow nor reap.
They are the whirlwind that threshes out the corn
The flail that beats upon the grain.