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Biography is either masked ball or epitaph. As you find me, so we are.

Tuesday, 28 February 2012

Space Race

Why do they call it a world war;
Does Earth know what she’s fighting for?
Do planets buy up bombs and guns
To blow themselves to kingdom comes?
There have been two, apparently.
So by my count this must be three.
Though we’ve been trained to look for flags –
Those national interests shown by rags
Of different colours and designs -
And so been blind to clearer signs
Of actual deaths, manmade by those
Whose acts and journeys just arose
To serve some purpose.  Who knows what.
Did someone know but then forgot?
Perhaps it’s all to prove a name,
Or find another one to blame,
To own some rocks, to earn some cash,
Or just to make a bigger splash.
So when they look for life on Mars,
By sending rockets to the stars,
I look and see the Martians came.
It must be them.  Who’d kill the same
Species?  Knock off their shared genes?
That would be crazy.  All these scenes
Of mothers clutching dying young.
Please say a Martian fired the gun.
A human would not be so mad
To kill that unique chance we had.
Maybe an Einstein or a Bard.
Replacing them will not be hard
But physically cannot occur,
The spacetime changed which means that her
Tiny creation, one that grew
Inside and after pain she knew
Them in the world, has gone
For good.  Or bad, if you believe that wrong
Exists, and not that might is right,
Or faster missiles or most hands
To throw grenades in distant lands.
We’ve gone to Mars and so this fuss.
It’s that, or Mars has come to us.

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