Two moles came up for air,
In the middle of a well kept green.
They gazed up at the starry sky,
And marvelled at the scene.
'So let me get this straight.'
The younger mole began.
'You're telling me it's infinite,
But there isn't any plan?'
'Well sort of' said the older mole,
'We know it follows certain rules,
But we think they're not deliberate,
Because creationists are fools.'
'So, one day there was nothing,
And then there was a bang,
And after that there's stars and stuff,
And that's how it all began?'
'That's right, I think' the old mole said,
Then blinked and rubbed his eyes.
It really was quite baffling,
To contemplate it's size.
'So, if not by design,
Why then is it here?
Can an unthinking process,
Not be a puppeteer?'
'Consider this,' the old mole said,
'The matter of intent is mute,
If there were a great creator,
Its motive would be in dispute.'
This gave the young mole pause for thought,
Why would you make a thing like this?
If you can make a universe,
What need have you for deer and fish?
'Who would not,
If they could make,
A wondrous thing,
For wonder's sake?'
The old mole smiled and said 'OK,
I'm glad to see you think,
But beware of where you're going,
lest to the depths you sink.'
'For if all the worlds are folly,
Then this one must be too,
And all who live within them,
Including me and you.'
This did the young mole flummox,
He'd never thought his life was just,
An aesthete's passing fancy,
Or a random sequence of stardust.
Seeing life can have no meaning,
He turned and dug back in his hole,
And went to hunt some worms to eat,
As for all that, he was still a mole.