The Saturn Cycle

Standing here in my heavy metal armour
staring at the rings of the giant world.
The bright sparkle of the tiny sun of home
in the distance is a tear in my eye.

Marooned on a Moon of Saturn

 

Standing here in my heavy metal armour

staring at the rings of the giant world.

The bright sparkle of the tiny sun of home

in the distance is a tear in my eye.

 

The broken metal of my tiny craft

behind me on a hill of ice that is so hard

that we left no mark when we hit.

Other than a black stain.

 

The silence is pandemonium in my mind

as I stare into Infinity and contemplate my life.

And know that, except for God,

I am alone out here.

 

 

The giant rings have fallen below

the sharp horizon.

But night does not come here:

It is always dark as the tiny moons flit past

going east and west

and sometimes turning back on themselves.

 

Walking across the hills of solid snow,

not made of water,

that dot the landscape and throw bizarre shadows

so that they make me think

that someone has come for me,

I watch the darkling sky for signs of home

and the flash of light reflecting from metal

or the bright flame of hydrogen fusion.

 

And pray to God that in this dark universe,

I am not alone.

 

 

 

 

The darkness is not just in my mind:

The snow is black.

My footsteps are disturbed not at all

by any light breeze such as lightens the heart

back home on Earth.

Where the sun is.

And I cannot see home for the bright sparkle

so far away.

 

The sharp horizon falls away too soon

And I look up into the darkness and the tiny moons

spinning before the giant ring:

leading me around in circles.

And leading no one to me.

 

For - in a place like this -

Only God knows His way around,

 

And in all the dark of that violet light:

I pray that I am not alone.

 

 

The deep green light from the rings

Has made my eyes to see dark violet

and a sky that hides hope

and promises me nothing.

 

The air is very bad now and I do not expect

to see my loves and old life again

 

God alone knows where I am

and the black snow,

Which I cannot feel and which children

cannot play in

Only mocks me into believing that the shape

outside is the same as me

and that the noise I hear in my headphone

is the voice of a man such as I am.

 

And yet:

 

And yet.

 

As the warm, yellow light pierces my darkness

and the hand that I cannot feel through my heavy metal suit

takes hold of my shoulder,

I realise that the rings above my head are, indeed,

a beacon that God has made so that they can find me.

 

And that, in all this vast Universe.

 

I am not alone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Robert P Mills © 2000
The End

1 comment about this poem Feed