Space Man
rating: +4+x

Radio static crackles into his ear,
To the space-walking man bearing no fear—
A feeling like playing poker without packing an ace,
Or having no helmet in the stars of deep space.

"Don't put the brush there and leave the blood dry—
Else we'll have to get fresh stuff
Like new blood and new dye.
That rune is messed up;
paint it anew—
Else you want to be split up into two."

The space-walking man heaves a great sigh,
For it is no small work
To paint runes in the sky.

More like blood-rites is this art, since there is no chance
Of living on sadly, this miserable dance.
One strike incorrect,
And no air left to breathe…

These things and more the space-man now grieves.

The spacesuit moves again
To see mistakes and amend
A task which seems to have not an end:

A red Celtic ring made from the genius of a man—
A man on the earth, who makes just the plan.
For it is another on Mars who carries through the rite
And paints all throughout the All-Gaping Night.

A few minutes later (and some several days)
A cold wind blows and some red dust fades:
The ill-suited man has now finished his scene,
A scene of old books and rotten dead dreams.

The time has come now for a chant to begin.
The final choir, quite, if the man wants to win.

He starts off slow, drawing much breath
Taking his time 'till he sees the Mark met.

With the planets aligned,
And the stars smiling above,
The Mars-man whispers words
Of sorrow and love.

And soon on true Earth
Does the spell take effect.
A true last spell, but not one so correct.
A rune for cows, and not one for leaves
Had been carelessly transcribed
In the darkness he sees.

And so ends the man, the first one on mars;
But he had unknowingly altered the stars—
Or the Fate, if you will, of a young, rough-worn boy
And set him to play into Life's daring ploy.

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