(Calvert)
|
I'd rather the fire-storm of atmospheres
|
Than this cruel descent from a hundred years
|
Of dream, into the starkness of the capsule.
|
Two of our crew still lay suspended, cool
|
In their tombs of sleep. The nagging choirs
|
Of memory, the lenghts of tube, and wires
|
Worming from their flesh to machinery
|
I would have to cut. Such midwifery
|
Is just one function of the leader here:
|
Floating in a sac of fluid dark, a clear
|
Century of space away from Earth.
|
One man stared from the trauma of this birth
|
Attentive to the tapes asssuring him
|
This was reality, however grim:
|
Our journey's end. The landing itself
|
Was nothing. We just touched upon a shelf
|
Of rock selected by the Automind.
|
And left a galaxy of dreams behind.....
|
|
-----------------
|
The Awakening
|
| Hawkwind |
