They came from the Moon.
Massive ships were built by the lunar colonies of the United Nations.
Spinning cylinders revolved on axes, providing gravity for the thousands of specialists on board.
They set forth toward the red planet, Brother of Earth.
Upon their arrival into orbit the spacecrafts would link-up to form the first recon base.
It took seven months for the interplanetary galleons to reach the scarred surface of Mars.
Some would return in two years.
Many chose not to return at all.
They would nurture the first generation of Martians.
Unmanned vessels had stockpiled the surface around Olympus Mons.
Crates and boxes held staples ranging from pressurized oxygen to hydroponic gardens and food for livestock.
Independent robots scurried over the ferrous hills and valleys to carve ice at the poles of Mars.
Water and hydrogen could fuel an emergency return voyage.
The quest for knowledge was without end.
Teachers kept the travelers sharp with holographic, educational resources.
Their view of the Earth and Sun grew smaller each day.
The craters of Mars became closer and easily defined.
Giant construction drones and dozers dug caverns and tunnels.
These routes were lined with plastic layers to be peopled by the new arrivals.
The atmosphere was nearly nonexistent.
The underground would provide sanctuary from the Sun’s uninhibited ultra-violet radiation and the bombardment of meteors and asteroids.
It was the dawn of a new age.
People of Earth queued in droves to be on the next wave to the Moon and beyond.
Mars became a target for would-be adventurers and colonists.
The space program was in full effect.
It was the beginning of mankind’s diasporas from Earth to the stars and galaxies beyond.
Eventually, we would no longer be dependent on a single sun for light, warmth and gravitational pull.
It was a race against the unknown.
The need to survive a black hole, a supernova, an extraterrestrial conquest.
The need to survive…regardless of the cost.
The wonders of the ancient and modern world rested on their shoulders and those of whom were yet to be born.
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Marching o’er hill and dale, the Knight, Geoffrey searched true.
His Lady waited valleys yon, whilst her champion the dragon slew.
Numbered many were his tasks, with ne’er a squire to aid him.
Peasants counted on Geoffrey’s valor, as did the loyal maiden.
But fortune is a fickle muse, eluded by victory he was.
For the Stone Lord Ahzim felled many with a heart callous.
Spurned by his love the stone troll roamed, wreaking havoc on his minions.
Deaf ears he turned to peaceful truce and diplomat’s opinions.
Geoffrey vowed to fell Ahzim and bring harmony to his land.
But the stone troll’s sword was forged of steel made by a Titan’s hand.
The two trolls clashed in full combat, which rang out o’er the vale.
And both warriors perished from their wounds and thus shall end this tale.
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In ancient times when work was done the clown, Woodruff, did sing.
The people loved him for his mirth and his colorful vest.
At the fountain the maid, Gwendolyn, fed doves with fluttered wings.
Woodruff tried hard to woo her but the maid would not say yes.
Desperate to find a working means to win Gwendolyn’s heart,
Woodruff sought far and wide for an enchanted rose to bring her.
Gwendolyn’s Rose, he named it so they would never be apart.
She’d be his without dispute once enchanted by the flower.
Magic thickets were abound, the clown was scratched and stung.
Yet faeries led him to the place where the coveted blossom grew.
He plucked the rose without contest although the maid was young.
Still Gwendolyn refused and said, “I simply don’t want you.”
In sadness Woodruff strode through the town, sniffing at the bloom.
Then he spied another maid sweeping with a broom.
Woodruff asked her, “Share my kingdom though it modest be.”
“I will,” she replied, and the friends were the merriest pair to see.
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My love is a rose, picked quietly at dawn, as people rise from sleep and prepare for the commute to work.
I am beset with thoughts of you and how I wish to give you all I am able.
The highways and freeways of this metropolis are filled.
Drivers and passengers roll by as the necessities of life pull them forward.
The sun breaks through the clouds and illuminates the earth.
I wonder how you are. Are you thinking of me? Of the world outside?
Just another day, like any other, yet different somehow.
I want to talk with you. Will you accept me as a friend?
We can hold hands on the beach and let the people stroll past.
Or maybe catch a movie and discuss the story afterward.
The passage of time is a unique experience.
Artists and engineers alike attend to their projects and tasks.
Workers and vagabonds fill Los Angeles with their industry and diligence.
The sun stands apart from the moon.
And the sky is the canvas on which they paint with light.
I want to bask in your warmth, like a lizard in the summer heat.
You are bright and perceptive, strong and upstanding.
There are still songs to be sung and poems to be written of laughter, friendship and affection.
If you lead I will follow. If you follow I will lead.
There are yet roses to bloom and suns to emerge over the horizon.
School is the place to be. It’s where the stones keep rolling.
Everyone has a future. Where our journeys lead no one can say.
Will you roll with me? We can entwine our futures together for a time.
I want to know about you. What are your dreams and aspirations?
Do you look out your window at night and watch the stars sparkle?
The universe is vast. It is large enough for a thousand generations to explore.
Within the time-frame of nature this moment is ours to do with as we will.
A brush of lips upon the cheek. A whispered message into the ear.
I’m glad to see you today. I’m inspired by your presence.
Each person is set to pursue his or her own muse.
I face the gathering of the tribes with a message of love.
The pulse of the city pushes onward. The opportunity to connect is close.
It’s easy to become lost in the mesh of streets and buildings.
We are obligated to survive, to move above the urban sprawl.
These roads were built for us to team up and create art against the drive of anonymity.
Art and craft are what remains when all is said and done.
We are the teachers of those who will come next.
The young will look to us for their own styles and motifs.
They will be guided by our time, this lasting minute.
Thus the torch of art is passed from one era to the next.
All these words wrapped into a digital disk for the millennia.
Perhaps an unknown alien will compile the world’s artistic material.
And the flora and fauna of our planet encapsulated in a great spatial exodus.
I believe there will still be roses and people to share them.
Love remains a lasting force despite the rigidity and homogeneity of contemporary society.
Something remains in the passing cars and trucks, the school buses and trains.
It is a will to resist cultural mechanization and industrialization.
Freedom of expression is essential and the challenge is ours to maintain it.
Love cannot be regulated by our work ethic or fluctuating economy.
Love is here to stay and will not be stamped out by anyone.
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