On the red cratered plains
Of dust and ice,
No Burroughsian cities
With spires of steel and glass
Rise to meet the welcoming sky.
Only rocky crags,
Dark, eroded, crumbling.
In the deep valleys and canyons,
No oasis jungles of exotic plants
Line the banks of mighty waterways,
Home of wonderful sights and sounds.
Only dry graves
Of rivers long boiled.
In the deserts,
No wise representatives
Of ancient dying races
Sing songs of rememberance and understanding
From their simple, spartan homes.
Only the piercing wail of frigid, supersonic winds
Born of the eternal dry winter.
And in the heavens,
No hurling moons of Barsoom light the night.
Only a single, silver-bright watcher
Drawing tides of ghost seas.
The harbinger of madness.
Chris Palmer
1/11/93