When the Hawk King spread his wings
And left in search of cosmic strings
To build his nest among dead stars
Many mourned. It seemed too far
For such a fragile, feeble thing
With many lightyears yet to fly;
How could one with such frail wings
Possibly achieve such heights?
What was it the Hawk King said?
When is a black hole not black?
It’s only black until you’re dead,
When it explodes and brings you back
Past the horizon. The event
Inspires. Keep talking! And we try,
Though the matter — or mind — is dense.
Yet the Hawk King somehow spied
The inner singularity,
Which no one, nothing can outrun
Except for thoughts that stick like tape
To Hawking radiation.
The Hawk King’s nest is a black hole
And, as he rests, the cosmos sings,
“A soaring mind and hopeful soul
Are key to knowing everything!”
