I'd anticipate a fifth tragic poem; i.e., were Primo Levi still alive...
In the Beginning: a poem by Primo Levi
Fellow men, for whom a year is
long,
A century a venerable goal,
Exhausted earning your bread,
Worn out, enraged, deluded, sick, and lost;
Hear, and
be consoled and mocked:
Twenty billion years ago,
Splendid, moving through both space and time,
There was a globe of flame, alone, eternal,
Our common father and our executioner,
And it exploded, and all change began...
Even now, the faint echo from
this one
'Catastrophe-reversal'
Resounds from the far ends of the universe.
Everything was born from that one spasm:
The same
abyss that embraces us and taunts us,
The same time that gives us life and ruins us,
Everything each of us has thought,
The eyes of every woman we have loved,
Suns by the thousand, too,
And this hand that
writes...
