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HAWKWIND >> Merchandise Links
HAWKWIND
(Calvert) I'd rather the fire-storm of atmospheres Than this cruel descent from a hundred years Of dream, into the starkness of the capsule. Two of our crew still lay suspended, cool In their tombs of sleep. The nagging choirs Of memory, the lenghts of tube, and wires Worming from their flesh to machinery I would have to cut. Such midwifery Is just one function of the leader here: Floating in a sac of fluid dark, a clear Century of space away from Earth. One man stared from the trauma of this birth Attentive to the tapes asssuring him This was reality, however grim: Our journey's end. The landing itself Was nothing. We just touched upon a shelf Of rock selected by the Automind. And left a galaxy of dreams behind.....
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