Amalthea

travel lightly,
the old man instructs machine;
light years passed --
towards the white horizon.

distant voices
travel swiftly, and
the black monolith of man
constructs playgrounds;
to blast towards the sun.

whisper, whisper
this mysterious land;
vast discovery for all,
but what will succumb?
the deadly hollows,
or time burnt in the sun...

Reviews

[Tam Warink]

A more mysterious piece. I see this yields, pliant to supposition and reflective inquiry.