The Awakening (Dts 96/24)

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 lay suspended cool In their tombs of sleep. Those nagging choirs 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 stares 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 auto-mind And left a galaxy of dreams behind