Strophe:

Water gives life; || the sun lords over days;
But gold is the well-wrought word, || god’s-gift to the world.
Sing of the small saints, || silent, unnamed—
Ghost-mice of the grain-bins, || grown tame for human need,
Who traded frost-field || for filter-cage frame,
And sealed a silent compact || no claw could carve away.

Antistrophe:

Grain-bins groaned once, gnawed || by grey guests who crept unbidden,
Scuttling from cold fields || to farmer’s flame-lit floor, all hunger,
And farmers cursed the gnawing guest || that fouled the flour, fed on their labor,
But Lathrop, lone and listening, || led them from floor to living loft,
Where line bred line, locked tight, || law inside blood—till Jackson labs
Would call this pale strain forth || for the kept covenant of cure.

Laminar wind, unsoiled, || lifts lint from living fur;
Cedar scents the sanctum || where soft feet pace the grate.
C-Fifty-Seven bears || black blood-price;
Wistar, white Adam, || waits, warehoused, watchful,
Dawn brought the feeding hand; || dusk brought the snapping thumb—
The hand that filled the water || felled them with the final sleep.

Ear-punch prints the witness || in numb cartilage, nailing the named;
Tail-vein takes blue river || where viral vectors ride to root;
LD-Fifty weighs death in halves || while hush comes heavy, CO₂ closing—
Till thumb-snap shuts the spine-cord || and soul-spark, severed, is gone;
Sharps Bin stands red, ready, || sealing researchers’ spent refuse;
Steam-hell scrubs the silver || and stacks their souls in data’s scroll.

Stray mutt of Moscow || met the mounting moon,
Caught from cold street || claimed for cosmic climb.
Bound in the bolt-sphere, || in the blind black sky,
Heart hammering hard || in hell’s heat and noise—
She watched the wide world || whirl, a wheel of blue,
A saint sent high || to silent sea of stars.

She burned as a beacon in the black, || where no hand could reach to bring her home,
And the wires that mapped her wild fear || wrote the way for men who followed after,
For the data won by dying dog || drove the path through endless night,
And the pilots who walked the waste she won || wore her death as warrant for their way,
First to fall in the fire of the future, || first to find what flesh could bear in flight—
The void looked back, and the void-watcher || vanished in the vast and lasting dark.

Dolly, winter-born, || woke from a dead cell’s dream—
First mammal made from memory, || she died remembering none.
OncoMouse™, patented prophet, || proved the patent’s price:
Lawyers’ unloved child— || yet lasting, law writ small.
See the bronze in snow, || stitching spiral, spectacled—
Monument to the mute, || made by hands they healed.

Through these few the nameless million || lift for one line toward the light,
Breaking blur of billion || to blaze a few with lasting crown;
For glory gives the singer’s tongue || what silence stole from still and mute,
A name is a nail, and the nail || pins a soul to the wall of song—
Yet the named are few, and the nameless mass || waits mute beyond the music’s reach,
For each one blazed, a billion burn || in the blank of the bone-ledger’s page.

Grass-gate gaped wide || for the glass-born, deemed surplus;
Clear plastic paradise || cast out on cold ground.
Black mice huddled || where bleak breath bit hard;
They nosed the tubs, nudged, || knew no name for earth;
The false sun sank behind; || fierce frost fell fast;
The grass was a forest; || the cat was a god.

They froze fast, at the plastic threshold— || paws pressing the damp earth,
False wind whisked whiskers— || wide world opened, owl-hushed;
What covenant did we keep, || casting them into cold we could not follow?
No contract signed in blood— || though blood had paid the bond already—
Warmth’s bond of trust was broken || bare, black, without breath of warning,
Cast from the engine’s care || to the cold of the cat-god’s ground.

Pasteur broke rabies; || boy walked, breathing;
Salk sought the sign; || the swarm supplied.
We walk on wide walls || of white-fur bone;
We drink the draft of cure, || distilled from their deaths;
Their blood binds our bodies; || their breath bought our breath;
The child who woke to morning || owed the mouse who met the night.

But poet brings praise where census || piles only number, count on count,
For a name nailed fast by song || never melts from memory’s wall,
So we speak the strains to wind: || Wistar, workhorse, white Adam, host—
And silent clans that science keeps || spring sunward, named at last.
And song returns to silent souls || the sparks the sharp count stole away,
And the million souls forgotten rise, || riding this rhythm, borne to the sun.