I would rather the fire-storms of atmospheres
Than this cruel descent from a thousand years of dreams
Into the starkness of the capsule
Where two of our crew still lie suspended cool
In their tombs of sleep.
The nagging s of memory
The tubes and wires worming from their flesh
To machinery
I would have to cut...
Such midwifery is but one
Function of the leader here
Floating in a sac of fluid dark
A clear century
Of space away from Earth
While one man stirs from the trauma of his birth
Attending to the hypno-tapes
Assuring him that this was reality
However grim
Our journey's end.
Landing itself was nothing
We touched upon a shelf of rock
Selected by
The automind and left a galaxy of dreams behind...

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