By Brian Robertson
--
A speck of dust free in the wind.
In a cold desert under a dimly lit sun
it spined, free from disturbance from anyone
Then came one, a shooting star.
Descendants of man, travelers from afar.
Touched down on the surface, in a cheaply made boxcar
They moved some land, and then some more
and up came the desert, through trenches they tore.
On this new world, they had yet to explore
Great domes popped up, not one and not two
with thousands insert, what would they do
they withdrew to couch, left the world to ignore
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