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