The wasteland of its Star: a torch forever in the flames
Of solar fury meant to hurl a storm where dense detritus rains;
Its craters roughened, shriveled, dry; its mountains crushed to smoldering ore;
In orbit close it faithful keeps its heated vigil at the Core.
An endless, sunrise sea of vapors multitudinous,
And broken spires of golden stone beneath cloud-dreams of alien dust;
No human eye could penetrate the veil of mystery above
This fair, primeval Terran mime that has forborne our sustenance.
The seat of paradox: imprinted with like kinds of things
That isolate themselves apart, and thus an endless conflict brings.
It struggles in a constant quest in progress toward some unknown doom;
Eternal march to entropy--acknowledged by a single moon.
The signature of age: the glow of embers far away
Illuminates the ruddy plains to mark the dying Martian day;
What secret does that sunset hold? As Deimos unrelenting spans
The path where Phobos keeps the key–was this the ancient home of Man?
A Herculean giant! Its sprawling carmine hurricanes
Surround the furnace deep within that fuel the false sun’s hidden flames;
About the everlasting storms, broad bands of orange and yellow gas
Erupt in tendrils igneous, and lick the Cosmos as they pass.
Adorned by crystal rings: each little diamond takes its place
Throughout the great horizon’s range to form a symphony of grace.
The pecking order of the orbs, disputed for a thousand years,
Is challenged by Saturnian skies, and by the Heaven’s brilliant flares.
The stance of character and fairy, alabaster beams
From pale, Elizabethan moons; its marbled surface spins and gleams
Like agate from a toy chest, or hidden in a rich ravine–
Touched by a child with reverence–its sister-image far, unseen.
Of misdirected poles: uncertain in their frantic race
Wherein their true position lies–on top, or down, or interface;
Neptune, sentinel of the night, caught in the satin folds of space;
Set in a jeweled arch of moons–with luminescent sapphire laced.
THE OTHER THREE
Intrepid wanderers, the little ghostlings of the stars;
Whatever form or shape they take are like humanity’s memoirs.
Interpretation lost to us, by distance and debate removed–
Celestial nature half concealed, until their rightful place is proved.