A Journal for Western Man-- Issue X
G. Stolyarov II
No foe had crippled their ship’s landing;
No sabotage had caused this crash.
Once, they were mankind’s realm expanding,
Then, they were men; now turned to ash.
Some term this but a property of flight,
A routine risk of frontier taming,
But must we brook it if it might
Further be lives and science maiming?
Even commercial planes for twenty years
Will seldom be in transport kept.
The industry to safety’s call adheres,
That passengers shall not have wept.
Where each malfunction bears a sickle,
Replacements swifter should arrive,
But shuttles’ progress has been fickle;
Five made in all; three yet survive.
Why, when the private man, his money’s master,
Can chart a thousand routes a day,
Build larger, stronger, smarter, faster,
To grant the customer his way?
Mere tribute funds are presently allotted
For petty upgrades at a sluggish pace;
Think of the markets that this system blotted
By conduct of a single-runner race.
No man’s to blame for this dread loss;
Incompetence in NASA seldom dwells.
Yet how will it into the Space Age cross,
When but scant residue its rise propels?
I yearn for times when debts to brave men vanished
In floating towers paid in full will be,
When stately barriers to space fall, banished,
And transports daily cross the new-found sea.