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The Goldfish

Donald P. Goodman III

Version 1.0,
Is the goldfish not happy, afloat in his bowl, with a universe all of his own? Does he worry his head over what he sees not, in his glass-encas'd world all alone? For the bubbling air from his filter is there, filling all with its babbling tone, and each morning new food falls like rain on the sea, as if God his good pleasure had shown.
In and out come the others, some friends and some not, some for long, some for just a brief time, and as far as our little friend sees, all these changes are made without reason or rhyme; for at random his friends seem to meet wretched ends, as they're fish'd from the world in their prime; his companions are stolen for uncertain fates, as if God, ever-cruel, did the crime.
In his clear little bowl, he can see all the world, catching all in the keenest of sight, and he certainly knows what is happening, clearly enough that he's ready to fight; is the goldfish not glad? no, he's now fighting mad, and resists fate with all of his might, ever sure that he sees all that he needs to see, that there's nothing beyond his own light.
But the fish's whole world is that tiny glass bowl, and his memory but seconds long, while the universe goes on forever, and age unto age will its aeons prolong; like a bass who can't hear with his own focus'd ear other parts, he thinks everything's wrong; but with tenors and altos, sopranos and bass, he's a part of ineffable song.
So the stars will keep turning, though he sees them not, and the world its fine song it will sing, and the goldfish will swim with his filter and food in his bowl, like some magical thing; for the world is so large that our miniscule charge cannot hope into sight the whole bring; our one hope: to the e'er-spinning stars singing glorious song we unbreakably cling.