They search for them among the rocks of Mars,
Europa’s ocean, Titan’s methane streams;
They search for them in signals from the stars,
And soon, perhaps — but these are empty dreams.
What does it matter if at last we trace
Microbes with like, or different DNA ?
What if we find another speaking race
Or three, or thirty, in the Milky Way ?
Whether they’re shaped like kangaroos or crows,
Whether their eyes are ten or only one —
They will be mortal flesh, and so their woes
Will be precisely ours, when all is done.
What can they tell us, those who live on high,
To help us on the path that must be trod,
When they, like us, are merely doomed to die,
While craving, but not ever finding — God.