Stephen Hawking: A Strong Case for the Soul.

If the soul does not exist, at least Stephen Hawking does. Poor body! Trapped in a wheelchair, even a finger unable to move. Unable to speak, what went on in his mind only available to us through a voice synthesizer.
Splendid mind, oh, soaring soul! One of the greatest scientists that ever lived and did not live by great equations alone but made the the bare essentials very rich indeed. Turned ponderous facts of our universe into such coruscating thrillers that it was wish of everyone that read him to soar above the stars. Where he really belonged. Above the stars and to the farthest reaches of our universe. Our expanding universe. Where the margins of the continuously expanding universe was at any moment, Stephen Hawking could be counted on to be there.
His death had always been exaggerated. Given a couple of months to live, he got to be 76. But that was where the greater exaggeration cropped up. His corporeal body might have gone but it was the mind and soul that we really celebrated, not the wasted body It was an essence that would forever live on. His physical body died a long time ago but his mind had won a very high place among the immortals. As someone said of Roosevelt, and which I can only recreate very poorly here, it seemed as if all energy and vitality drained away from his damaged body into a skull that soon overflowed with incredible intelligence and perception.
So we have no demise to celebrate. Not even a life. But the knowledge that man can reach far above himself. Far beyond where his body can lift him.

A VERSE FOR STEPHEN HAWKING

The zest of walking has ebbed from his legs

And from his hands the grasp of holding, pointing

But as little rivers the headlands of the mighty one

So has all vitality of his life surged into a pool

So vast

Its waves knock on the farthest banks of the farthest worlds

If I could count all the stars in the bright, bright sky

If I could read their omens, configure their alignments

I would still be blind indeed

A poor seer in the light he hawks

He is a revelation that reveals all

Opens our eyes with a single blink of his own

He points to us the farthest earths

Without lifting a finger

He wears not a hat, but plucks out hidden stars

With the magic of his being

He strides through the wide, wide world

Without a step of his still, silent limbs

All treasures of earth I would gladly give up

But worship not: watch him, watch him

Seek not the holy chariot to divine

Heavens beckon in the beacon of his brain.