100: J. Robert Oppenheimer

"If the radiance of a thousand suns were to burst at once into the sky, that would be like the splendor of the mighty one."

So it began, with fury,
the birth of a project.
Masks were off and suits were on,
Dapper young fellows carry vigorous minds,
Wear angelic lab coats,
And with skilled hands they paint the pictures
of triumph, of smoke and radiant fire
that transcends earth and enters bodies,
expelling souls
(as if their hollow shells were not empty enough);
He hears it, those words singing sweetly to him:
The Song of the Divine One;
it chants, it roars deep
in his locked heart,
and beats its drum to the tune of a deafening blast.
What have they just seen, here?
Images once witnessed become reality once more -
twice more - and the tired man closes his eyes.
Become master of the race, and others follow his creed,
Appoint him as Father, creator of all ends
An unwilling prophet, undeservingly so.
But the secret is passed on, from mouths within buildings
the virus widens, as does its appeal
with the black-red-white trinity; gift-wrapped fear by the architects.
It soars gently in the air, and floats like a dove.