BY VASA CLARKE
Battered by time, and lit by distant suns
A well-worn hunk of metal drifts in space
“This is the Voyager,” its message runs
“A token of our triumph and disgrace;
There’s problems we still have, so far to climb,
But know that we have tried to stay the course.
And if we can, we will survive our time
So that someday we might live into yours.”
Imagine— it’s not hard— that ages hence
Another race in its magnificence
Might find that craft and from its structure guess
Some other thinking species made its gears,
Then trace its route and find to their distress
An ashen waste lain cold and dead for years.