Weird Tales of the QFT

Here is a rock, a quant, an Earth.
It popped out of a field of stars

By chance or since it had no choice
Since a speck on it looked at it.

The specks on it are fields of bugs,
Of germs, of souls, of ghosts, of names.

They dance. We dance. You dance. The rock
Spins and spins, and the specks take turns.

First came the specks that had no plans,
And then the specks that burned the air,

The specks that ate the air, that belched
More air, that ate the specks made air—

The dance and all its turns and spins
Has spun too long to list them all.

Let’s cut to the chase—the best part
Of the crust of specks on the rock,

We like to think, are now the names,
Terms, counts, sums, rules, maths, games. More ghosts,

Sure, and the first ghosts not just specks
As well. But the rock has not grown.

The field of stars goes on with stars,
Pops, blooms, holes, arms, dark, bursts. The whole

Is the whole and the rock is part,
And the specks on the rock eat specks.

How will the names get off the rock?
Will the names find specks on far moons?

Will the names end the reign of specks
On specks on Earth’s rock fields? Stay tuned.