by s.c.virtes


To travel the years
up, out, and alone,
they wander the sectors
on wings of fire, watching,
they chase resources
with inhuman eye
a shell of probes, aware,
drift outward, ever seeking.

The silent pilots fly on
into the arms of forever, grey
mist cold sleep protecting
their skin and life
-- mind and memory --
from the burn of the stars.

They move on arcs computed,
they streak about and away,
from hope to hope resounding
another glimpse, an ice world,
indicators think -- yes/no --
they shall not rise today.

The Seekers keep them in storage
cold waiting for the perfect home,
tired arms holding
centuries of progress,
moving alone, but without fear,
moving dreamless whisper away
into the night unbending.



Poem copyright © 1995-1996 by s.c.virtes <>


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