Re: Bring It Home
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever Roverian. There shall be
On that bare gravel a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom NASA bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her wheels to rove, radios to talk,
A body of Earth's, now in Martian air,
Unwashed by rivers, blast'd by arid red storms.
And think, this battery, all power shed away,
No pulse in the eternal cpu, no less,
Gave sometime back those things by Terra wanted;
The sights and sounds; detail far and near;
No laughter, learnt of friends; but the scanning eyes, computation,
and wheels at peace; under an Martian heaven.